


The way home

by bluebells, Danudane



Series: Truck stops and tribulations [2]
Category: Kingsman (Movies), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Din Djarin, Din and Jack are twins, Everyone lies, Found Family, Gen, Kingsman / Statesman & the Mandalorian Fusion, M/M, Modern day road trip AU, Slow Burn, Wherein we save Jack from the mincer in the most long-winded found family way possible, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23495485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danudane/pseuds/Danudane
Summary: In the long shadows of dusk, Paz’s frown pulls deep. Din glances away before the man can catch him staring.“He’s coming,” Din says. “And the kid’s booster seat is still strapped in. All our stuff is on that truck.”Jack glances between them, coming to some conclusion, and it rankles how his mouth again draws into a shallow shrug: if you say so, little brother.Two years before the events of Kingsman: the Golden Circle, Din Djarin seeks out his twin brother for help removing a blood tracker from a child. Ratings and warnings will change.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Jack Daniels | Agent Whiskey (Kingsman), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Paz Vizla
Series: Truck stops and tribulations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690528
Comments: 68
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea to continue this story was largely an accident and became an activity helping us keep sane in this biblically catastrophic quarter of 2020. Drama lies ahead, but we promise aftercare will follow. This story has been eating us alive for three months and I'm relieved [Danudane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danudane) and I can start sharing it. We hope it brings you some welcome distraction in these crazy times. Tags will be updated with story developments.

Daylight is low, the sun all but set, and the air has sharpened with the oncoming chill of night when the three men emerge with the child from the Kentucky diner.

Din Djarin has barely slept since the Eastern bounty hunter's guild of Nevarro cut ties with him a week ago. He could have survived without the guild's network but the bounty on his own head doesn't help with the matter of getting a restful night's sleep.

Not when he's already running to protect one smaller and so much more vulnerable. A bounty is too large a burden for any toddler to bear.

They’re risking a lot in the hope Din's twin, Jack Daniels, can help with that.

“So, the ones following you.” Jack glances over his shoulder, waving them toward the black Wrangler parked out front and centre. “Who are they?”

The practiced answer catches in Din’s throat when he sees the way his driver looks at Jack’s jeep: Paz Vizsla has a mean glower when he wants to use it.

“We’ll bring my truck,” Paz says. He doesn’t sound nor look interested in arguing the point.

Jack cocks an eyebrow from the six-feet-five-inch trucker to his blue, gold and red semi-trailer waiting by the adjacent country road. The cowboy blows out a long exhale and tips his hat back at the truck so large it couldn’t fit in the diner’s lot.

“Well,” he shakes his head. “I don’t mean to sound indelicate but-- aren’t we trying to fly _under_ the radar here? Maybe Optimus Prime ain’t the ride you want for a quiet entry where we’re going.”

Paz shakes his head, frowning and lost. “Where _are_ we going?” 

“Distillery,” Din says, quiet and firm. “Right? Same place?”

His brother nods, scanning him with a considering look. Din wonders if he’s weighing the risk of bringing them home -- a stranger and the one who spurned the opportunity of a lifetime.

Well, one man’s golden goose was another man’s choking hazard.

“Why--?” Paz begins to question, but Din catches his eye, holds it, anchoring the man with him. 

_Caution_ , they had agreed. _Not too many questions._

After a heavy pause, Paz huffs impatiently under his breath. He straightens, stubbornly resigned, broad shoulders pushing back under that unseasonably thin down jacket (what an envy, not to feel the cold). They had agreed to err on the side of caution with Jack, but Paz placing his trust in Din at all is still a wonder to him. At the end of the day, he and Paz are still strangers to each other. One week is not long enough to know a person.

“Fine.” The driver looks to Din’s brother. “I’ll follow you. I’ll park a block away and come the rest on foot. Keep a line open to let us know when we’re close.”

Din watches his brother adjust the kid on his hip. Jack had been awful reluctant to give up the chance to carry the little one, even just a little bit farther. 

The kid’s small hands are closed tight on his thick sleeves, dark eyes gazing up into his face, lips parted and glistening with the threat of a fresh dribble. Jack looks down into that round face with a small smile. The little one burbles a soft noise of wonder, entranced. Maybe it’s the moustache. 

Jack looks to his brother, jerks his head at their taller company. “Do we need him?”

Ugh. Din sighs. Jack has never been shy about speaking his mind and making Din’s life difficult. And people complained about _Din’s_ manners.

In the long shadows of dusk, Paz’s frown pulls deep. Din glances away before the man can catch him staring. 

“He’s coming,” Din says. “And the kid’s booster seat is still strapped in. All our stuff is on that truck.”

Jack glances between them, coming to some conclusion, and it rankles how his mouth again draws into a shallow shrug: _if you say so, little brother_. “Note the license,” He directs Paz to his Jeep’s black plates. “Don’t get lost.” And then to his twin, “Take it you’re riding with him if the kid’s seat’s up there?”

Din frowns at the Jeep, gently biting his inner cheek. 

Has it really been only days since he met Paz? It feels like months. Maybe once they’ve spent more than a week together, Din will trust the kid alone with him. 

Unlikely.

_I don’t trust anyone._

Din steps in and opens his hands for the child. The kid automatically raises short arms in response, and Jack’s expression softens. He hands him over with the familiar confidence of someone accustomed to handling tiny, floppy humans, and Din wonders what small children have been in his life lately.

“You mind giving my brother and I a minute?” Jack nods to the semi waiting on the other side of the road.

Behind Din’s shoulder, Paz grunts in assent and steps off, the crunch of gravel fading with his distance.

Jack watches him leave, gaze lingering on his broad back until he’s satisfied, then his hands find his hips and the look he gives Din makes his gut churn in old anxiety.

“Where the hell did you find him?”

“He… found me,” Din explains lamely, throat dry. 

The child pulls itself up higher on his chest with a loud yawn, small hands in his collar. 

“And why was he looking for you?”

“He was passing through the same diner on his way to finish a job. He saw us getting shot at. He stepped in.”

Jack’s expression twists with ugly skepticism. “Awful samaritan of him.”

How was Jack always so infuriatingly patronising? 

“We’ve been running for a week, Jack,” Din snaps. He is so tired and his brother is annoying. “He took a big risk giving us cover. But don’t worry. I’m cutting him loose.”

“Hey, I’m not worried. It’s your life. But you could have come straight to me.”

Din snorts under his breath. “Right.”

And all would have been forgiven after Din left him with a broken jaw and a black eye.

He swallows, throat tightening. “You told me not to come back,” Din reminds him.

Jack shrugs it off, shaking his head. “And when the fuck have you ever listened to me? We’re brothers. Remember, you and me? That’s all we got.”

Din scowls at him. He’s not the one with a memory problem.

“We got a lot of catching up to do,” Jack murmurs, searching his twin’s face. “It’s been three years, Din.”

Din bites his lip, his gaze dropping. Gravel crunches under the kick of his boot. “Yeah,” and goddamnit, his voice still cracks. 

There are a lot of things they could (and should) talk about, but this isn’t the time and he can’t name a single subject he’d volunteer to start. 

He’s grateful for the excuse of the child, shifting the warm bundle to the cradle of his other elbow to give all his nervous energy somewhere to go. 

Small fingers curl into his short beard with a quizzical noise. The kid’s dark eyes search his, sweet mouth pouting up at him, as though asking, _What are you doing? Where are we going?_

He tugs the kid’s thick beanie low around its ears and heavy lashes blink under his brush of its nose. It’s going to be okay.

“You look alright.” Din notes the good state of his brother’s clothes, the lack of shadows under his eyes, and the absence of bourbon on his breath. Three years ago, it was a different story.

Jack snorts a quiet laugh, pleased as always for every compliment. “And _you_ look like you ain’t seen the struts of a real bed in months.” His voice drops. “I can’t get you inside, but we can get close enough and get the kid seen to. We got lodgings usually used by tour groups, but should be space enough for the two of you and the--”

Jack tips his hat in Paz’s direction and shrugs for lack of a satisfying way to summarise.

“-- Trucker.”

Din just nods, refusing to rise to Jack’s scathing tone. His brother can keep wondering. “Thanks.” 

For helping with the kid. For their shelter. For not asking all the questions Din had expected, and agreeing to see him at all. He doesn’t remember his brother as a generous man. He swallows, just a mite nervous. 

“I can pay you.”

Jack waves him off, nose wrinkled. “Don’t want your money. But the ones following you and the kid. They close?” 

“We got a day’s lead on them. Maybe less.”

“You’d gain more if you ditch that guy and his transformer. The semis are known and tracked. If they saw you get in that thing, they’ll see you coming for miles. And this guy.” Jack’s shoulders rise with the casual shrug of his offer. “He sounds too convenient. Am I gonna have to shoot him?”

It’s an honest offer and as casual a gesture as taking out the trash. Jack doesn’t even ask if Din could just dismiss the guy. It’s so Jack, and sheds years of distance between them. Some of the tension drops from Din’s shoulders. 

He wants to argue that there are still good people out there.

He shakes his head.

“If it goes bad.” Din glances to the truck and Paz is watching them, leaned up against the tall wheel, thick arms folded, eyes dark. “I’ll shoot him myself.”

///

Once back in the truck, Din says, “After this, we go our own way.”

Paz has just shut his door behind him. The cabin is briefly swamped in darkness, and pale light washes in from the diner’s sign over the dashboard. He stares at Din, the weight of his frown prickling on Din’s neck. The silence draws out a beat longer than comfortable. 

Jaw tight, Din keeps his attention on buckling the kid into its booster seat between them.

“What did he say to you?” Paz asks, low and cautious.

The little one watches Din’s hands with keen interest and his small feet kick happily once secured.

“Your truck is distinct. We need to stay discreet.” Din reaches for his own seatbelt and looks ahead to the road. 

“The truck the only problem?”

Din worries the inside of his cheek, rolling his jaw. “Your taste in music could use some work.”

Paz snorts a laugh and his seatbelt clicks into place. “You mean: _you_ could use an updated education. Hick.”

Din bites his lip to repress a smile, looking out the window.

The truck rumbles to life. For a moment they idle, waiting for fuel to warm the engines. It’s not so cold that Paz probably needs to worry about the lines freezing, but there’s snow out there and Din has learned Paz is not the sort of man who likes to take chances with his home.

That’s what this truck is, after all: more than a transport and a vocation, it’s the man’s mobile home on the road. Din hasn’t asked if there’s a more permanent place waiting for Paz at the end of the line. The thought makes him uncomfortable in a way that’s difficult to name.

A soft thud lands by the kid’s booster seat. Din startles at the tall, feline face that suddenly rears into his vision, the weight of heavy paws pressing against his thigh.

For such a large animal, Paz’s maine coon is adept at sneaking up on him time after time. Din’s had a week to train his senses, but this giant among cats only makes a sound when it wants to be heard. Din could stand to learn a few pointers from its stealth.

He sags, shoulders dropping their tension. The ginger cat sniffs his cheek, his chin, blinking up at him curiously. Long whiskers tickle his beard. Maybe it’s scenting the roast he had in the diner. And to his surprise, the creature is _purring._

Din glances to her owner, wary at her proximity. The last time she got this close, she was glaring him down into the pillows, fur aglow in the late afternoon sun wondering why this stranger was waking up in her human’s bed. 

Where else was he supposed to sleep?

It is not lost on Din that he's painted a target on Paz, too.

The kid perks up with a burble of delight, small hands reaching for the cat's thick tail swishing back and forth in his face.

“She deciding if she wants to eat me?” Din asks, leaning away from her roving nose.

Paz shifts the truck into gear with an easy smile and reaches over for his charge, stroking a firm hand down her back. His fingers disappear in the long fur. “C’mere, baby.”

The feline meows at the familiar touch, turning and pouncing immediately into Paz’s waiting lap. She’s large enough to fill his arms and make him crane around the impressive flare of her tail as tall as his torso. Din stares and wonders, not for the first time, why Paz decided on an attack cat instead of a dog like any normal trucker.

Din hasn’t known many truckers, but there’s something different about Paz. 

The other man blows out a comical breath of exasperation at the cat circling over and over in his lap to find the perfect spot. She fills his face with fur as he checks his mirrors and pulls them onto the road. He pats the dashboard, “Up” and she follows the instruction seamlessly, well accustomed to this routine.

The cat stretches along the dash’s full, impressive length and Paz tosses his cap up beside her. She’s a driving hazard, but one Paz is clearly familiar negotiating.

“You ever thought about giving her a real name?” Din asks, pointing to his brother’s Jeep waiting at the street corner.

'Ms Kitty' worked so long as there were no other competing felines in the district.

Paz grunts an unimpressed noise under his breath and pulls the truck into convoy. “You call your kid ‘kid’.” It’s a nudge, not unkind; _don’t judge me. Pot, kettle._

Din almost smiles _._ But the kid is not his kid. 

Not that Paz needs to know that. 

“Point taken.”

The distillery is not far from the diner. A twenty minute drive at most. 

The cat dozes with its long limbs stretched out and the kid yawns into his over-large jacket collar. The quiet has almost settled back to the silent ease they usually enjoyed.

“What you said in the diner….”

Din looks over at their driver. “What?”

Paz is watching the road, eyes intent. The muscles of his jaw visibly tense. “Have I… done anything to make you not trust me?”

Din is grateful for the shadows and Paz keeping his eyes on the road so he can’t see the warm flush rise on Din’s neck. Damn it. He bites his tongue and idly grinds one fist into the palm of his other hand, wishing for the gloves in his pack behind the seat.

“It’s nothing personal,” he says, eventually. No, that feels… not enough. He sighs and unclenches his jaw enough to push the words out. “I’m grateful. For your help. You didn’t have to help us in the lot and... driving us cross country. Now, with Jack. I know it's a lot.”

“It’s fine,” Paz says quietly.

“We’ve asked enough. We'll be out of your hair soon,” Din decides. 

It has felt unsettling leaning on someone like this: like easing down into a familiar chair but wary of how long its frame will hold. It’s sad to say, but he hasn’t asked for nor accepted the help of another person in a long time. 

They’ve travelled together for a mere week. But a week in Din’s book would convert to long months by a normal person’s standard. And he hasn’t enjoyed many measures of ‘normal in his life’.

“If you want to go, I won’t stop you,” Paz says. He sounds distant, mind faraway. “It’s been my honour to help you two.”

Din frowns, hand closing tight over his fist.

It makes him uncomfortable when Paz speaks like this-- the air electrifying around him, his words falling with the gravity of things Din can’t see or understand. Paz would sound ridiculous if he didn’t sound so genuine.

It’s unsettling being in the presence of… that. Whatever that is.

“What you said,” Din parries the attention. “Growing up with guns. Running. Was that true?”

“It is.” Paz nods, glancing over his shoulder to change lanes as Jack’s rear lights signal a turn ahead of them. The long wave of Paz’s dark fringe almost falls in his eyes and Din watches him push it back with a hand, fingers threading through those heavy waves. “It was rough. I wouldn’t wish that on any kid.”

Din thinks about that and the way it resonates, the ghost of an ache down to his bones. “I’m sorry.”

Paz shrugs. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m doing all right.”

He glances Din’s way, catching him with a wry smile. Din can’t help but return it and huffs a laugh under his breath. A warm stillness blooms through the tension in his chest left from his conversation with Jack.

Maybe there are still good people out there. But he’s not going to wait around to be disproved.

A small, loud yawn breaks between them, tailing to an exhausted whine. 

Din winces with guilt, looking down into the kid’s slow, teary blink under the lamp lights streaming by. How does something so small make such a large sound?

“Aw, kiddo.” Paz sighs, equally pained in sympathy.

Din leans in, heart twisting when the kid turns its face up to the hand he smoothes over its tufty hair, thumb gently stroking its forehead. “Not long now,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

The kid closes its eyes with a soft, unhappy sound and leans into his palm. So small. So vulnerable. He doesn’t have it in him to pull away, fingers sinking into the short, black fuzz of its hair. This kid needs -- the kid _deserves_ more protection than he can provide.

He’s guilty to admit Paz had answered some of that anxiety up until now. But they can’t hide here with him forever.

It’s mere minutes later that Paz announces, “All right, pulling over.”

Din steels himself and strokes the baby soft skin beneath his thumb. Forever is a nice dream, though.

///

Humidity is supposed to be good for one’s skin, but Poppy Adams would sooner dehydrate and mummify than weather another night in the jungle without air conditioning.

Night brings little relief. The jungle hums, chirping and screeching, the nocturnal shift of nature leaving no illusion of her party’s solitude. These ruins were ‘undiscovered’, but although no other humans linger within radio distance, they are not alone. It doesn’t matter.

This is _her_ home now.

Break over, the scream of chainsaws fills the night and Poppy’s team resumes the heavy work of clearing the jungle strangling the old settlement.

Sighing, she turns the electric fan up beside her to its max setting and sighs at the fresh blast of air, collecting her hair up off her neck. Squinting at the monitor before her, the video feed is difficult to see beneath the glare of floodlights casting their clearing as bright as day.

The black and white picture on the monitor freezes and distends. Poppy scowls, pressing buttons to no avail. What the hell is this, the actual 1950’s? After a patient stretch of seconds longer than any technology deserves, she throws up her hands in disbelief. 

“Eli!”

The technician appears at her elbow, shoulders hunched and drawn. Poppy’s face wrinkles at the acrid stench of sweat that fills her nose from an arm’s distance. She expects a certain level of dress sense and hygiene from her people, but...

“Baby, why do you smell like that?” she asks, gaze lingering on the thick sweat of his brow. “Am I not paying you enough for deodorant?”

Taking Eli on was a favour to her late father, the man’s previous employer. Eli is her man for telecommunications, her doctor for everything technological. Getting a clear and reliable signal this far out from civilisation is reason enough to sweat, but that’s why she brought him on board. Eli was supposed to be the best and worth all the times he made her teeth grind with his nervous twitching. Nervous people are so annoying.

“I’m sorry, Miss Poppy. It’s just--” 

“Poppy,” she corrects, appraising his pitiful, shiny demeanour.

“Poppy.” He ducks his head in apology. Poppy pulls a face when he mops his brow with his sleeve and it comes away with a wide, dark streak. The soft grey of his suit is already stained with all shades of jungle. Well, she won’t be sending him to represent her at any board meetings, that’s for sure. “I will re-apply as soon as I get back to my things.”

Poppy waves off his ramblings. More constructively, she thrusts a hand at her unresponsive monitor. “Why does my surveillance feed look like a boiled VHS tape?”

Eli blinks, wide eyes darting to the suitcase-mounted computer. “Ah. That may be… m-may I?”

Spinning the computer around to her tech support, Poppy sits back, fanning herself even as the electric fan whirs on. 

Getting the diner water-tight and wired up with A/C is the first priority. Until then, the building is a dank tomb trapping the worst of the humidity and she is better off braving the elements with her fan, the work site’s bright, bright lights and all the jungle’s insects it attracts.

An uncomfortably large cricket the size of her hand falls down dead with a loud zap by her thigh. She brushes it away with a grimace.

The things she endures for better world order.

_Eye on the prize, Poppy._

Eli straightens before the computer and turns it back round to her. “There you go, Miss Poppy. Please try again.”

She blinks at him, slow and heavy. She does not spare a glance to her restored monitor. “Eli, baby, I’m not inspired with confidence in your abilities when you can’t even remember how to address me properly.”

His eyes fly to her face and his sweat-flushed complexion pales to a pallor that almost makes her cringe in pity.

“I-I’m sorry, Poppy. It’s just how I was raised. Respect for our elders--”

“Oh, you’re saying I’m old?”

Eli pales even further. His shoulders begin to shake with his nervous tremors. “N-no it’s… respect for superiors, a-and--”

Poppy throws up her hand to mime a beak closing. “Your face, your voice. They grate on my nerves. I’m sorry, I feel terrible saying it, but it’s true. So, be quiet. And let’s see if you fixed this.”

She presses play on the video. This time, the visual snow resolves into the high vantage of a large parking lot filled with cars. The image is smooth and fluid as the seconds tick by. In the bottom corner, movement --

She claps in exasperated delight. “Oh, at last! It’s working.”

It’s difficult to make out at first: the blur of indistinct shapes coalescing into hooded figures under the tall street lamps. A long semi-trailer occupies the bottom right of the frame. 

Light flashes in the dark at the foot of the Waffle House stair; the spark of a gun firing.

Poppy glances up at Eli, hovering with some trepidation at her shoulder. “Is there sound on this?”

He tests a few commands on the keyboard. “N-no, Poppy. It doesn’t seem so.”

She hums in disappointment. “Oh well.”

The surveillance footage lights up with more flares in the dark, glittering around the carpark like the desperate putters of dragonflies. Multiple shooters. 

“Just a moment,” Eli reaches past her again, the image paling and brightening under the magic of his intervention.

“Oh that’s much better,” Poppy smiles when the featureless dark encompassing much of the image sharpens with the outline of vehicles parked row upon row, a full customer contingent even at 2am in the morning. 

Where are they….?

Poppy leans in, squinting at the barely discernible figure standing strong at the foot of the stair, a significant lump high on their back. 

The picture almost whites out with an abrupt flare of light from the bottom right of the frame, long and spitting. The gout of flame peters out and at its source towers a new person: broad-shouldered and stalking towards the figure at the stairs.

“Whoa,” Eli breathes as the flamethrower erupts again, spewing at the bounty hunters now cowering back against the cars for cover.

Poppy leans in. “That’s him.”

They watch the tall one shift the heavy flamethrower to his back, something equally bulky but short sliding into his hands from the opposite shoulder. The muzzled puff that alights from the barrel of this artillery is an anticlimax after the draconic display.

But Poppy’s eyebrows rise at the consequent explosion engulfing several cars in a furious inferno.

“Okay… okay,” she murmurs, knuckle brushing her lower lip as she considers the possibilities. 

It looks like the target had called for support, and the cavalry was packing heat.

“Update the intelligence,” she glances at Eli still gaping at the monitor. “It looks like he has help now. Advise they’re heavily armed.”

As they watch, the figures dash to the cover of the semi-trailer. The large truck shudders to life, a new explosion billowing up in the car park as it pulls onto the road, the carnage covering their escape. And conveniently lighting up the night well enough to get a read on the license plate.

“It’s only a partial,” Eli clarifies as they both squint at the frozen picture, the image’s fidelity failing to stand up to the demands of magnification. “But between this and the truck’s markings, it might help.”

“Up the bounty.” Poppy fans herself, settling back in her seat, face wrinkling as her shirt clings to her spine with sweat. “If people are going up against that kind of firepower, they’ll expect to be well-compensated.” 

And let nobody say that Poppy Adams won’t compensate for a job well done.

Eli almost bows to her, head low. “Yes, Poppy.”

She snickers, watching him. He’s endearing, for all that she wants to dunk him in a pool of deodorant. “Go now, Eli. We’re on a deadline.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hell. Teach your guy some manners, Din.” Jack breezes past him and waves Paz back from the woman all but cowering on the threshold. “Quit hulking and admit my colleague, Vizsla."

Din expects a medical wing. A sterile clinic, at least. What he gets instead is a conference room. 

He frowns at his brother, but Jack has been on the phone since meeting them at the boundary of Statesman’s grounds and waving them to follow through the side door of the imposing oaken gate.

It’s not that he distrusts his brother. He can hear Jack negotiating with someone for medical equipment and murmuring about discretion.

No, it’s Statesman itself.

The air of this organisation has always set him on edge: the estate is thickly steeped in a disingenuous veneer of Southern charm, glossy and flawless as the dark wood polish of every surface now gleaming back at them. Din can see how this place has clawed a foothold in his brother from the way Jack walks and talks. Even the way he smiles, mouth curving crooked when he doesn’t think others are watching but it’s _snide_ , superior, and calculating.

_Careful, Jack. Your colours are showing._

Jack didn’t always pass so easily as a Southern-born and bred son.

The chill of a memory slows Din in his step-- cold damp of a concrete bunker, gun heavy in hand.

 _“Only one of you can be chosen,”_ the voice had crackled with static over the speaker. _“And only you three can decide who that will be.”_

He closes his eyes, shivering hard. The memory slips like a damp shroud from his shoulders, bundled and thrown to the darker corners of his mind; too well-used over the years.

At least in the air force, they were upfront about who they were and what they were doing. Being an agent for Statesman would have required more subterfuge than Din was prepared to deal with. By contrast, Jack had embraced the opportunity to remake himself.

Once the conference room door clicks shut behind them, the child squirms on his back in its carrier, whining softly.

“Okay,” he hushes, swinging the pack off. 

Jack has led them to a reception building that looks designed to receive visiting sponsors and exec reps. Din’s hackles rise. How is this supposed to help them and the kid?

A broad table dominates the conference room, leather chairs flanking its long sides. The moment Din sets the kid down on its polished surface, the little one rolls onto his belly, pulls up on stubby legs, eyes bright with mischief, and takes off running.

Din flinches, tense. “Catch him--!”

At the table's other end, Jack glances down from the call on his cell and offers a cautionary hand. He nods, tone distracted with the person on the other end of the line. “Yeah, I took them to meeting room three.”

The kid barrels into Jack's waiting arm with a happy squeal at the table’s edge.

Din huffs in relief.

Jack wheels him about and the kid sets off in a beeline back to Din, soft sneakers smacking the wood. Din receives him with a weary _oomph--_ not because the little one’s impact even registers (the kid is so small it’s like catching a bean bag), but when he sways with an exaggerated wince-- 

The kid gurgles with laughter, simple, unbridled joy. Small hands tug on the ends of his jacket. He looks up and up into Din’s face with an exhilarated giggle, smile impossibly wide, and Din is abruptly stung by the notion of a world where that smile is gone or the kid doesn’t instinctively run into his arms at the sight of him.

Blinking, his vision swims with an overlay of the child’s face slack with fear, eyes wide in confusion. Heavy doors closing on the sight.

Din’s chest tightens, rejecting the notion. Swallowing tightly, he pinches one of those round, dimpled cheeks and allows himself to smile. It’s going to be okay.

But wasn’t the kid whining from exhaustion a few short minutes ago? Maybe it was just the prospect of freedom. This is the most they let the child run in the last week. They haven’t enjoyed the luxury of too many truck stops or long walks.

Paz hovers by the closed door, large hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, mouth pursed in a tense line. Their eyes meet. Paz draws in a slow, heavy breath, and Din nods at the look in his eye. Hopefully this was the right choice.

Hopefully they can rest soon.

A careful knock raps on the door.

Jack hangs up his call, nodding at Paz to let them through. “That’s Ginger.”

The woman they find waiting on the other side of the door looks more like a doctor than a secret agent. 

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes comically wide at the sight of Paz damn near filling the doorframe with his shoulders alone. She stumbles a half step back, hand rising to her throat. “J-Jack?”

Paz scans the length of her white lab coat and frowns at the steel clipboard clutched in her arms. “And what are you supposed to be?”

“Hell. Teach your guy some manners, Din.” Jack breezes past him and waves Paz back from the woman all but cowering on the threshold. “Quit hulking and admit my colleague, Vizsla. Speed and discretion are of the essence. For the kid’s sake.”

The woman, Ginger, looks at Jack with alarm. “Kid?”

She is so petite Paz could likely blow her over with a growl. Din watches him study her with the same critical appraisal Jack had endured, searching for threats and opportunities, forming a summary in his mind. Din wonders if they arrive at a similar conclusion: scientist. Analyst, maybe. Unlikely to be a field agent.

“You didn’t say anything about a kid,” Ginger mutters at Jack, shoulders tense.

As if perking up at the subject of discussion, the kid coos in Din’s arms, legs kicking with delight. All that tired energy and nowhere to go. Din winces gently and narrowly avoids a tiny, flailing fist to the chin.

Ginger finally sees them. The moment her gaze settles on the toddler, her dark eyes grow large and round. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “O-oh.” Her voice has fallen soft. Her eyes lift to Din and she visibly startles. “Oh!” She squints, staring at him hard. “Wait.” She gapes at Jack, then Din, and to Jack again. A slim hand points at Din in accusation. “A brother? A _twin_ brother? How did I not know this?”

Din catches the meaningful look Paz turns on him. It feels kind of judgy. Din spreads his hands in question.

_What?_

“You two really don’t talk about each other,” the tall man muses under his breath.

Din shrugs, head cocked. What was the big deal? Hadn’t they ever seen twins before?

Jack, meanwhile, is sweeping an arm out to usher Ginger quickly inside. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, honey. So much more to learn.” He grins, wide and shameless. Jack always thought he was so charming.

It’s testament to how well this woman must know him that her eyes roll hard with a thin groan, tugging a silver steel trolley after her. Paz pushes the glossy, oaken doors shut behind her.

“Just tell me you didn’t get his personality either. I can only deal with one of him,” Ginger says.

It takes a moment for Din to realise she’s addressing him. “Oh. I, uh… no, he’s….” He shakes himself out of the fog and inclines his head. “I’m Din.”

Ginger returns the gesture, a perfunctory smile finding her lips and disappearing just as swiftly. “Din Daniels?”

“Djarin,” he corrects. “Just call me ‘Din’.”

He’s not sure what it is about that statement that lights up her face with soft relief, but at least she doesn’t question why they don’t share a surname. Din is tired of telling the story. “Agent Ginger Ale. Call me ‘Ginger’. At your service.”

“Daniels says you all have experience with blood trackers,” Paz says.

Ginger twists around and regards the man studying the tools on her cart. She throws a hand out as though to ward off any risk of him touching her instruments. “And you are?” She looks less intimidated now; more bemused.

“Vizsla,” he says, meeting her eye briefly. “Paz Vizsla. I’m with him.”

Ginger follows his nod back to Din. “I see. Your bodyguard?”

“His ride,” Paz supplies, rounding her to get a better look at the tools. 

On the cart’s other side, Jack snorts a laugh under his breath. For a moment, Din wonders why. When it clicks, he wishes it hadn’t. His brother will never grow up.

“Is that a temperature scanner?” Paz points at a device that looks like a barcode reader beside a series of electronic tablets and other items Din doesn’t recognise. Medical care was never his strong suit.

Ginger nods and they follow when she brings the cart to the end of the conference table. “Among other things. I understand someone is being traced, and... you want to get it out.”

“The kid,” Din gestures with him tucked against his chest, balanced in the curve of his elbow. The kid cranes back to peer at his face with a quizzical sound, a small hand reaching for the thin stubble on his chin. “They put a tracker in his blood. Not something just anyone can remove.”

Ginger glances between him and the child, gaze soft. “Who’s tracking him?”

“No one good,” Din says, eyeing the trolley critically. “Anything on there really up for the job?”

Ginger looks to Jack as though for permission. Whatever she’s seeking doesn’t come and she sighs, treating Din with a careful smile, almost apologetic. “That sounds… complicated.”

Hands deep in the pockets of his thick blue jacket, Jack closes the distance with that slow strut of his, expression thoughtful. The kid hums under the hypnotic brush of Jack’s fingers over his brow, back and forth. The kid’s large, dark eyes blink, eyelids growing heavy. 

Din will need to learn that trick.

“Yeah.” Jack holds Ginger’s eye, an entire conversation passing between them. “It might be.”

Din waits for one of them to share. He doesn’t like the idea that Jack could be withholding anything where the child’s concerned.

“We’ll try our best.” Ginger offers a slender, gloved hand for the little one. “All right, Baby, let’s take a look at you.”

“Din.” Jack nods for him to follow to the room’s end, lifting a tablet from Ginger’s trolley. “Let’s make sure _you’re_ not being tracked.”

“We’re not,” he says.

Jack stops and holds his gaze, eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”

“I’m sure,” Din asserts. “Just the kid.”

“All right.” Jack neither sounds nor looks convinced, but he doesn’t press the point, glancing at his tablet in hand with that condescending air that always made Din’s blood boil within a second. “Let’s check your devices then.”

Statesman has access to resources they don't. It would be foolish not to take advantage. 

Huffing with a glance over his shoulder, Din catches Paz’s eye. He gestures to the kid. “Could you…. ?”

Paz nods, arms unweaving to take the child. The kid looks absolutely miniscule when it tucks into his elbow, head pillowing on his chest. The little one’s sleepy, curious expression lights up with dopey joy at the familiar face he now finds above him.

Paz smiles back, warm and amused.

“Din.”

He blinks, coming back to himself. 

At the head of the table, Jack raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Actually--” They all look to him, waiting. Din nods at Paz. “Yours, too. We should check.”

He sympathises with Paz’s uncertain frown, but eventually the man digs into his back pocket with his free hand and slaps the phone into Din’s waiting palm.

"I'd appreciate you not going where you don't need to," Paz says.

When Din reaches Jack at the room’s other end, his brother plugs Paz’s in first. A new dialogue pops up on the tablet before them and Din watches the file names and system messages stream past.

“I already checked. It’s clean,” Din says.

Jack hums in that sing-song patronising way of his; what other tune would he know? “Never hurt to be thorough.”

A heartbreaking cry splits the air, freezing Din’s blood in his veins. He whirls, looking for the source of danger. He finds only Ginger glancing helplessly between Paz and the little one desperately scrambling to curl into a tight ball, all but clawing at Paz in his attempt to climb under his jacket and the shelter of his arm.

Paz yelps, adjusting to save the child from dropping out of his hold.

"I haven't even touched him yet!" Ginger protests, expression contrite. "Oh, I'm sorry, baby... I don't like needles, either. But it's not that bad. I promise."

Despite the squirming protests, Paz shuffles the little one higher in his arms. The kid whimpers, shaking, hiding his face in his thick shoulder. 

Din almost goes to him.

“Here. Let me,” Paz says, and Din stares as Ginger hands him the cannula.

Paz hums a strange, nonsense song, his touch dancing over the kid's exposed arms and legs to lightly poke and pinch with the cannula's blunt end, reducing the device to a toy, just another part in his game. He sways on the spot in a soothing rhythm. As they watch, the kid's whimpers fade to soft sniffles. His round face eventually surfaces from Paz’s shoulder, pout severe. Paz bops him on the forehead, then his nose. The kid’s face scrunches in a helpless giggle. He squirms, laughing, when Paz tickles his belly.

Paz has that look on his face: the one that makes his features soften and glow and, honestly, Din can relate. There’s nothing like being the sole focus of that child's smile.

With his distraction, Ginger successfully slides the cannula into the child’s arm held immobile and starts withdrawing blood samples for her tests.

Paz has done this before.

"So, what are you doing keeping a married man from his family?"

Din frowns at his brother, unsure he heard him right. What is Jack talking about?

"I saw his wedding ring," Jack keeps his voice low and even. A conspiratorial smirk curls his mouth. "Finally come down off your high horse?"

Din blinks, bewildered. Off his--?

"You slept with him yet?"

A disgusted bleat of offence escapes Din's throat before he can throttle it. His jaw clenches. "It's not like that."

Why is his brother so punchable? Not everyone tries to prove their prowess by seducing someone away from their partner.

Jack shrugs, appraising the big man holding the squirming kid still for Ginger's examination. "I mean, if you're not moving in on that--"

"You know, you don't have to fuck with _every_ person you meet," Din rolls his eyes. "What about that medic of yours? You slept with her, too?"

Jack pulls an affronted face, shaking his head. "Ginger? She's _ground_ support." A thoughtful look lights his eye and he catches Din with a suggestive leer. He leans in, elbowing his arm. "Might be just your type!"

Din all but shoves him off. His brother is infuriating. But this is not the time nor the place. No matter how bad a situation, Jack could always make it worse.

"Not everyone's looking for that," he snarls, snatching his phone back once he sees the progress bar of the scan complete.

Not everyone needs constant companionship. Jack would probably die if he didn't have staff to harass and someone new to warm his bed every week.

The two things weren't always mutually exclusive, either. Jack thrives on controlled chaos, but to Din from the outside, the whole thing is a stressful HR nightmare waiting to implode. He doesn't want any part of his brother's circus. He's known since they were quite young that they want different things in life.

Maybe one day Jack will accept that Din doesn't want or need a companion. Some people aren't meant for relationships.

They're just different, he and his brother. 

Jack snickers and shakes his head. "Spiky as always, Din'ika."

Din glares at him, but despite his best efforts, his brother's words linger. Din has seen the wedding ring, too. And he has wondered who waits for Paz. Where is home. He's wondered why Paz hasn't agreed to offload Din and the kid at the next available opportunity so he can go back to them.

They have traveled together for a week. Din never sees him call anyone.

Din may not believe in relationships for himself, but he won't be the reason someone compromises their own.

It's occurred to him that maybe not all is well for Paz on the home front. Maybe Din and the kid are a convenient diversion for a time. And while Din isn't going to break up a home, he won't tell a stranger how to live their life, either.

They're grown men. They're all free to make their own mistakes. 

///

“I’ll need some time to get the results,” Ginger had apologised, writing on small, white labels and carefully wrapping them round the vials before treating the kid with a gentle smile. “You did so well, sweetheart.”

The little one just pouted at her from the cradle of Paz’s elbow, the bright white cotton ball taped down over the needle site comically large in proportion to the arm it was bound to.

Jack glanced between Din and Paz, nodding. “All right. Might as well get you two settled for the night. Follow me.”

Once shown to their rooms, Jack had promised to come back after a few quick words with Ginger, so Din is surprised when he answers the knock at his door and finds Paz instead.

With hands in his pockets, ear bent like he'd been listening for the latch, Paz meets Din's eyes and smiles, rocking on his heels.

"Hey." Din frowns, searching him for a hint of his intentions.

"Hey,” Paz’s voice is quiet and his body language is… hesitant? What is he nervous about? “Thought I'd offer to look the room down. If you want."

Din blinks at him. “Really?”

Does Paz think they’re _less_ safe behind these walls with their automated security and stationed patrols? Less safe than in his truck?

The man shrugs and his large shoulders crowd as though apologising for all the space he’s occupying. He spares a glance down the short, carpeted hall, warm lanterns in the walls. "I know it's your brother's place. But just. After the last week." Paz looks the closest to sheepish Din has seen in their time together. "Habit, you know."

It’s true. Din has noticed his nightly ritual of pacing the length of the truck. Din assumed it was to check for wear or damage as much as anything suspicious. 

He didn’t expect that habit to follow them onto Statesman grounds. He is not sure how to deal with Paz like this and he feels at a loss. But if Din invites him in, does it mean Din himself distrusts Statesman that much? More importantly, does he have so little faith in Jack to keep them safe?

Glancing back into the room, a mischievous giggle draws his eye to the kid wriggling down into the pillows on the bed.

Maybe Paz just wants to say good night to the kid.

“I--” Din stalls and the absurdity of the offer must be starting to sink in because Paz kicks his heel at the carpet, and Din watches a shutter close behind his eyes.

"If you wanted. But. It's stupid. Never mind. G’night, Din." He starts to back up. Something about the way he ducks his head goodbye makes Din falter.

He’s not sure how or why the next words leave his mouth: “You want to come in? Say good night to him?”

It’s like watching that shutter pull back when Paz smiles, bashful and pleased. He doesn’t need to be so embarrassed about wanting to say good night, Din thinks, stepping back to let him past. The kid just has this effect on people. At least, the ones not shooting at them.

The door clicks shut and he hears Paz call, “Hey, kiddo, ready for bed?” but when he turns back, Paz is running his hands the length of the windowsill and then finding it has little risk of breach because it lacks a means to open, anyway. It’s not that kind of guest quarters. 

Paz’s expression turns pensive in the dark reflection of the glass and he presses his palm flat, studying his knuckles. Din thinks he has little reason to worry. If only he knew that glass was bulletproof, as it was through most of Statesman. Paz heads into the bathroom to inspect further anyway.

“So, why does a distillery for one of the country’s biggest brands have advanced medical technology?” he calls, voice echoing on tile.

Sighing, Din reclines on the bed, careful not to lean too heavily on the pillow nest. Ankles crossing at the knee, he pulls out his phone and starts scanning the news. 

“There are some questions we shouldn’t ask,” he says.

“We? I think you know the answer or we wouldn’t be here.” Paz emerges from the bathroom and clicks the lights off. His tone is skeptical. “But if you don’t want to share. That’s up to you.”

Din just frowns at his phone. No, he doesn’t.

To his credit, Paz drops it. His curiosity must be satisfied because he instead leans over the bed and burrows deep into the pillows beside him. Din grunts, jostled by the movement, and doesn’t bother looking up when Paz emerges with an armful of squealing child, crowing triumphantly.

Din snorts under his breath as the kid shrieks with laughter, held high overhead before he’s brought down and Paz blows a loud raspberry into his stomach. Din stares at the far wall and suffers in silence.

“Okay!” Paz declares in that exaggerated commander voice that for some reason delights the kid. “Lights out, no snacks after midnight, and be good for Din.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” Din says, swiping through the all points bulletin feed on his phone.

“No snacks after nine!”

“Don’t get him excited. He was just getting sleepy again.”

“Understood. Want me to put him down?”

Din sighs, finally looking up to find Paz dangling the kid upside down by his ankles over the pillow. It’s a hold more fit for game than precious cargo, but both Paz and the kid are watching, waiting with matching grins, and the kid beams at him with its tufty thick afro sticking out every which way.

He shrugs and shakes his head in resignation. “Sure.”

As Paz settles the kid with its blankets and bottle, a thought occurs to Din. “Are we still on schedule for your job?”

When Paz had rescued them outside that diner, he’d been on his own way to make a delivery. They’d spent the last week routing circles through the states to keep the hunters off their tail, but Din’s guilt insisted Paz not derail his life for them. The man had done him a favour, and he had a job to keep. Coincidentally, leading them straight to Kentucky. Reaching out to Jack had seemed like the natural next step.

“Drop off’s less than two hours away and max delivery time isn’t for another few days. We have time.”

Din frowns, lowering his phone to consider Paz’s back, bent over the baby seat. “But--”

“We have time,” Paz says, firm but gentle.

Din inwardly huffs, grinding his jaw. It's not his problem. 

Paz brings the kid and its makeshift cradle over. Bundled in a nest of blankets, he settles him securely on the bed beside Din and borders him with pillows. Least likely place to fall. Safe and close. “You got the rest?”

“Yeah, I'm on it,” Din says, already opening the music app on his phone. They both glance in at the kid when the rush of wind and storms fills the air and, with a heavy blink, the little one looks over at Din. A small, pudgy arm lifts and Din takes the tiny hand that reaches for him, rubbing gently. He feels a smile tug at his mouth and glances at the cotton ball still taped to the kid’s forearm, evidence of his bravery. “You did good today, kid.”

“Beh.” The little one hangs onto his fingers even as his eyelids grow heavy.

“Sleep now, kid,” Din reassures him. 

_You’re safe here._

Din has to give it up to Paz for this trick with the soundtrack of rain and storms. Bedtime had only been a concept before he found them.

“I hope these people can help him,” Paz says, once the kid’s head has drooped to his pillow and his eyes have slid shut.

“Yeah,” Din sighs, studying that round face softened in sleep. “Me, too.”

He lets the thunderstorm continue to play, it was always safest to continue at least half an hour to ensure the kid was well and truly asleep. 

At the next boom of thunder, Din realises Paz hasn’t moved from his place by the bedside. Looking up from the baby seat, Din meets his eye only to find Paz already watching him, expression thoughtful.

He frowns at that look. “Was there something else?”

Paz blinks, as though coming back to himself. “No. No, place looks--” He glances round the room. “Good.”

He’s still standing there, unmoving.

Din glances to the door; Paz seems to need the hint. “Jack will be back any minute.”

And finally, Paz is motivated into action. “Yeah, I’ll-- I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Din.”

Din turns back to his phone and the bulletin feed. He doesn’t watch Paz go, he needs to make sure the authorities haven’t been given any reason to look for them either.

“Lock it behind you,” Din calls after him when the man is at the door. 

He only looks up once he hears the click of the latch close. Alone at last. Grunting under his breath, he glances back at the sleeping child. 

“Yeah, he’s a strange one.”

///

“Hey.”

Standing before the door to his own room, Paz stops, key card at the lock. He raises an eyebrow as Jack strolls to an easy halt, sound of his steps swallowed by the copper-tinted carpet. The cowboy points to his brother’s door.

“You just come from here?”

Something about his tone chafes.

Paz glances between the light wood and Jack’s disapproving frown. “That a problem?”

Jack’s arm drops and swings at his side like a pendulum weighed by his disappointment. He shakes his head. 

Does he think Paz would care about his opinion? Because he doesn’t.

Paz turns to face him straight on, hands finding his hips, head cocked. “You got something you want to say, I prefer we talk straight.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

Jack throws a hand up, gesturing at the length of him. “Straight?”

Paz blinks at him in disbelief. Well that’s just fucking rude. “And here I thought you Southerners were renowned for your manners.”

“You heard right.” Jack’s smile is cheshire smug and just as sharp. His eyes burn dark beneath the brim of his hat. “But that’s my little brother you’re messing with. My last remaining family. I’d be well pleased to show you the _limits_ of our hospitality, if I learn you so much as _think_ about crossing him.”

Well, that’s a surprise. Wouldn’t it be nice if this turned out a genuine display of concern?

Paz’s mouth shrugs and he keys his door open. It beeps affirmatively, light flashing green, and he pushes it open, greeted by darkness on the other side.

“That’s funny,” he mutters and flicks on the lights.

“What did you say?” Jack says, voice rising.

Pausing in the doorway, Paz smirks at him, lazy and wide. “From what I heard... only one you should be protecting him from -- is you.”

He shuts the door on the satisfying sight of Jack’s face darkening with anger, and chuckles quietly to himself. Paz didn’t even start swinging.

His aunt would be so proud.

Paz stops up short, the warm mirth at Jack’s expense fizzling down to a hushed ember at the thought of her. His aunt.

Staring at the dark face of the cellphone in his hand, Paz sighs. Double checks the door is locked behind him before he makes the call. Sinking down on the impeccably made bed, Paz palms his knee and waits, swallowing moisture down his throat.

With each ring, his chest tightens further, hot and difficult. The fifth ring is interrupted mid-tone and his heart leaps to his throat.

“Yes,” _she_ answers, calm and controlled, with all the weight of the authority that used to inspire him with so little effort. Her voice, projected through great halls, could make every head turn and hail a reverent silence. When she spoke, Paz did not only hear her but all the voices that had come before and infused her with their wisdom.

She still has that effect on him. But now, instead of drawing his shoulders back with pride, Paz sweats at a single word.

“It’s me,” he says, glancing to the shuttered windows. 

It’s stupid. He already checked them. Swept this entire room twice for surveillance, surprised to actually find none. Statesman were unexpectedly trusting of their guests. Jack was apparently the exception.

“Yes,” his aunt’s tone is unaffected. “I know.”

Paz takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. “I’ve set the plant. They can start the trace now.”

“They have already begun.”

Of course. They would have been ready. They _had_ been waiting far longer than Paz promised they would need to. 

It hadn’t been easy to steer Din here.

“Good,” he says. “Let me know what you find.”

“And how are you? Still confident in your plan?”

His palm closes over his knee, kneading sweat into the worn denim. His eyes lift to the wall dividing his room from them - Din and that sweet kid on the other side.

Gaze dropping to his boots, his voice is steady. “I am. But I need a favour.”

She grunts in amusement. “Bold of you.”

He knows she’s right. He shouldn’t ask. He has no right to ask after the way he left. They are already doing him this favour, but they will also gain from his efforts. If everything goes as planned. Years of patience at last rewarded.

“Yes,” he says. “And maybe fortune will favour us once more.”

He can hear the smirk of approval in her voice, and it’s like the release of a vice around his chest when she agrees, “This is the way.”

“This is the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That sick feeling turns over in Jack’s stomach, hardening cold and certain as Ginger reaches for her datapad.
> 
> “Show me,” Jack says.

The playlist of storms proves soothing for more than the kid and Din has settled back against the bed when he hears the door click and slide open again. Wasn’t that supposed to be locked?

“Paz, I alr—“ he starts, turning to find his visitor is not Paz at all. 

Jack cocks an eyebrow beneath the brim of his hat and locks the door behind him. 

… Shit. 

“Nope. Not ‘your ride’.” A smirk plays at the corner of his brother’s mouth and Din rolls his eyes. 

“Really, Jack?”

“Well and truly.”

 _“Why_ are you even here?” Din grumbles. Jack warned he would return, but Din’s tired. It’s been a long week. The prospect of finally getting a real night’s rest behind safe walls is too attractive. He’d like nothing more than to lay his head down once he’s confident they’re still off the radar.

“You know we still need to talk.” Jack says, drawing Din’s attention away from his phone once more. He doesn’t make an effort to advance any further into the room, leaning a shoulder up by the door, arms crossing loose before his chest. 

Din raises an eyebrow at the distance still yawning between them. “From over there?” 

“Need I remind you the terms we left on weren’t so auspicious.” The ones that left Din with split knuckles and Jack himself with a broken jaw. 

Jack rubs the side of his face, absent minded, as though the memory makes his nerves twinge. It was too much to hope Jack would have simply loaned his assistance without asking something in return. It’s not unreasonable. Din had just hoped Jack might have claimed some other compensation than… talking.

It’s not their strong suit.

He is grateful (though a little guilty) when the nest of pillows shifts beside him and the kid’s head emerges, rubbing his eyes with a small fist. 

“Eh?” He blurts, peering blearily between the two brothers. 

“Hey, kiddo.” Jack spares him a smile. “Looks like we’ll have to be on our best behaviors now, won’t we?” 

Din decidedly ignores his pointed look. “Don’t patronize me.”

Jack raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just making a point.”

“Yeah, you have a habit of doing that,” Din bites back. He’s already had two rounds of Jack tonight and that’s two rounds too many.

“Look.” Jack sighs, relenting. “I didn’t come here to argue.” He shifts and hesitates. Din’s eyes narrow when he approaches the bed and stops, reaching across Din to offer the kid a hand. Tiny fingers wrap around his pinky, pulling and pushing in a gentle swaying motion.

It’s very tempting to smack that arm down.

“I’m trying to put him to bed.” Din tries in a last ditch effort. His brother is nothing, if not persistent.

Glancing from Din to the child, Jack hums under his breath with a thoughtful frown. It almost feels like an apology when he gently guides the child back to its nest of blankets.

“So,” Jack says, tucking one of the child’s arms under the blanket’s edge. “Tell me about this guy.”

A muscle in Din’s jaw tics. What more can he say about Paz that he hasn’t already? But before he can complain further Jack continues, “The one you had to kill.”

Din’s breath catches in his throat.

Oh.

Bowing his head, Jack’s stetson slides into his hands and he rests the hat’s wide brim over the child’s eyes. A curious coo echoes from beneath the leather, but no whines of distress follow. Jack folds his hands over his thigh and meets his brother’s gaze. 

“That was your first? Since we got back?”

“Yeah.” Din’s voice is hoarse. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and has to focus hard on the shape of the child shifting under the blanket instead.

If he doesn’t, he’ll instead see those eyes that find him every night when he turns out the lights: wild, bloodshot and impossibly wide. The man’s skin had glowed with a sickly pallor, veins stark like fissures of indigo rising from his neck to his hairline. He’d spoken nonsense, but his gun hand was steady.

There had been no other choice.

Jack snorts a quiet laugh. “Still can’t believe you made it all these years as a bounty hunter _without_ killing anyone.”

Din stares at him, but his brother just smiles back. He’s being serious. 

“It might shock you, but the rest of us have to abide by the law.” His clients definitely wouldn’t appreciate the heat from association to a murder charge.

Jack shrugs light-heartedly, cocking an eyebrow. “Look, sometimes… people resist.”

Din mirrors the gesture, head tilting. “Never been a problem for me.” The bounties didn’t have to be conscious, just whole and healthier than not. Most of them were bail-jumpers and too scared to resist the moment they were found. It rarely got violent. 

But this bounty with the kid… he had never worked so hard in his life. His ribs ache and he’s still knitting together in places.

“I’ve heard,” Jack’s smile is wide. “You’ve made something of a name for yourself East-side. What’s that line? ‘I can bring you in warm or--’”

“You keeping tabs on me?” Din growls.

Jack’s face tells him that’s a stupid question. “I’m your big brother. Wasn’t any other way I was going to learn what’s going on in your life. Was there?”

_("It's been too long. You don't call, you don't write.")_

Din scowls deeply. His heart pounds in his chest. He’d just wanted space. And time. Was Jack always going to be looking over his shoulder?

“Did you know we were coming?”

“No. I have my own life, you know. Wasn’t aware of this casualty. You kicking up a fuss on your old turf. Making off with your own target. And _that_ guy?” Jack jerks a thumb at the wall separating them from Paz. He rolls his eyes in an impressive show of disgust. “I thought you _hated_ teamwork.”

“I hated the _team.”_

From the look in Jack’s eye, he catches the reference. His gaze drops, wry smile tugging at his mouth. With a rueful laugh under his breath, Jack glances heavenward as though he might find the stock and balance of their lives in the ceiling’s grooves. His voice is very quiet. “At least when we cleaned house, we had back-up.”

His sobriety changes something in the air and Din stares at his hands. Swallowing feels difficult. “I… I don’t think I left a trace, but… if they do… if they find me… I need to find a safe place for the kid before that happens.”

“Is that why you killed this guy?”

“He was after the kid. Not me. He had a fob.”

Jack nods. “Yeah, I gave it to Ginger. It’s good you held on to it. She can study it.”

“Do you really think she’ll be able to help?”

Jack is drumming fingers against his knee, studying the tall chair in the far corner of the room. “Blood trackers are rare even in our line of work. Ginger may be a whitecoat, but she’s a good one. She’ll turn up something.”

“You trust her to keep it off the books?”

“I’ve worked with her for years. But this Vizsla--”

Not this again. Din rolls his eyes, rising from the bed to seek out a drink from the mini-fridge.

Jack continues, undeterred. “--You known him a _week?”_

Din cracks open the can of soda with as much vindictiveness as he can muster and gets spray on his collar for the trouble.

“‘The hell are you doing telling him our history?”

Din’s face twists, drink stalled halfway to his lips. “I didn’t--”

“You don’t know him,” his brother argues, voice rising again. “You can’t trust him.”

“Jack,” Din snaps, throwing a significant look at the… well at the stetson hiding the snoozing kid, but his brother understands his intention well enough. Lips to the can’s rim, Din starts chugging.

Jack is quieter, tight and annoyed. “You know what he said to me? ‘The only one Din has to worry about is you’ -- the _fuck_ have you been saying to him?”

Half the can is already gone and, not for the first time, Din wishes he drank alcohol. His lip curls in a scowl. “I told him you’re a pain in the ass and last time I saw you, I almost broke my hand on your face!”

Jack points at him like Din has walked into a trap. “Which you still ain’t apologised for.”

Din spreads his arms in invitation. “I’m sorry your damn head is so hard it gets us both in trouble.”

“Hey, who ran to who for help today?”

“And have you cleaned up?” Din crushes the empty can and throws it to the trash beneath the desk with a satisfying thunk; a clean shot. “I know twelve step programs. Shouldn’t _you_ be apologising to _me_ first?”

Jack rises to stand, expression dark. “What I do to grieve my own goddamn family… so I can support _us?”_ His voice is low and trembling with rare fury. “That’s my business.”

Din knew it. He shakes his head in disgust, leaning back to appraise his brother. “You never went to rehab. I bet you’re not even clean.”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Jack leans his weight on a hip, arms crossing. “You’re still here. Asking for my help to clear the way, like always.” 

Weariness falls over Din, heavier than before. He shakes his head, wishing he could shut Jack and all the noise he brings out of his head. He releases a long breath.

“I’m done for the night. I need to rest,” he says.

Jack watches him for a few seconds, and eventually relents, nodding. “Okay. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

Din really doesn’t want to pick this up tomorrow, but he doesn’t argue the point because it allows Jack to reclaim his stetson, revealing the child softly snoring beneath it. He follows his brother to the door and frowns when Jack stops, fingers on the handle.

Jack turns back. He hesitates.

“Din.”

Din frowns with suspicion, waiting.

Jack meets his eyes. His searching gaze feels heavy. “Did you steal that kid from his family?”

A high pitch static whines in Din’s ears. He stares at his brother, disbelieving.

“... What?”

Jack turns, facing him squarely. “I’m sorry, but I need to ask. If there’s a report for him, we’ll find it. But if you took him from a bad situation, we can--”

“How the fuck can you ask me that?” Din hisses.

Jack raises his hands in placation, but it’s insulting. “I know, okay?” He leans in, searching Din’s face. “ _We know_.” Not we, Statesman, but Din and Jack. “It’s not always cut and dry.”

“He was a _bounty_ , Jack. I took him as I was told!” 

Jack holds his gaze. “And these people you took him from. They weren’t his family?”

Din feels his expression twist into something ugly remembering the remote warehouse, dark and empty. The child’s bassinet revealed beneath a heavy rag in the corner, stowed like some common piece of trash. 

Or maybe, hidden in the vain hope of benevolent salvage.

“There was nobody,” Din says, chest tight at the memory of those dark eyes blinking up at him in the dim light of his flashlight. The sudden urge to see the child tugs at something within him, and he glances back to the bed. His chest loosens at the sight of the child’s face relaxed in sleep. “He was alone.”

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “You stealing him _back_ for his family?”

Din looks at him, incredulous. “Those people? There’s no way they’re his.”

“Family, you know... it can be fucked up.”

Not those people. “Impossible.”

“He got a name?”

Din’s hands curl at his sides. “Not one I know.” He feels ashamed he can’t give the kid that much.

“You found him without a name? Damn. You _are_ good.” In a rare turn, Jack sounds genuine.

“He’s ten months old,” Din says. That and his last known location were all they gave him.

“... I'll have Ginger run him against missing persons. If anyone's looking for him, we'll find out. And if they’re decent, we’ll hand him over.”

Din’s exhale leaves him in a rush. He nods, turning back to his brother. “Thank you.”

Jack shrugs, expression thoughtful. “You’re looking for a safe place for him. But for now that's probably with you.”

Din’s heart skips a beat, drumming hard. “With _my_ job?” No. There _has_ to be someone -- somewhere better. “It's no life for a child.”

“As I hear it, you're unemployed,” Jack winks at him, tugging the door open with a click. “Might be room for options?”

Din just glares at the wall and huffs out a tired breath of frustration.

“There’s a cafeteria down the hall when you’re hungry in the morning. I’ll send Ginger round to get you.”

Din nods and even that feels like effort. “Sure. Thanks.” His voice is rough with exhaustion. It’s annoying to think his brother could mistake it for emotion.

Jack tips his hat. It’s hard to translate the look in his eyes, like he’s waiting for something, judging his options. “Hey. We’re going to keep him safe. I got you.”

Not wanting to encourage any further discussion, Din just nods again and shuts the door behind Jack when he steps off. He checks the locks twice. Burying his face in his hands, his shoulders drop with a sigh so deep it feels like it will never end.

Enough for tonight. 

He looks back at the kid, ear straining for its soft breaths. He shakes his head. 

Enough.

///

Statesman’s night shift is halfway through their rotation but, in Jack’s opinion, some occasions are worth pulling a few extra hours.

A stream of faceless names speed by on Ginger’s large, wall-set monitor as their systems sift through each state’s missing persons databases. Ginger set the scan for children under two years old of African-American descent. Although Din lifted the kid from somewhere in the Eastern states, they can’t dismiss the possibility he came from elsewhere first.

Toddler after toddler flickers by, each smiling soft, beguiling and bright-eyed. They number in the thousands and as the tally climbs, Jack’s heart grows heavier, sick to his stomach.

So many missing children. So many broken families.

Across the lab, one of the computers beeps. 

Jack straightens from his lean against the console. Ginger looks up from her desk where she had been studying a read-out of the kid’s general blood test results. Low on iron, but all things considered he was remarkably healthy.

That sick feeling turns over in Jack’s stomach, hardening cold and certain as Ginger reaches for her datapad.

“Show me,” Jack says.

On a second monitor, a new image appears: a cell structure, biosynthetic in nature. Below it, an affirmative green message displays the familiar make and model of the kid’s tracker.

Ginger’s lips part with a soft ‘oh’ of shock. Jack is more vocal: whirling with a curse, he smacks the side of Ginger’s console for lack of anything else to hit.

Ginger looks from him to the monitor and back again. “But--”

“God-- _damn it--”_

What were the odds. What were the fucking odds.

Pretty damn good when he could count the number of competitive patents on one hand.

Ginger stutters and points to the monitor accusingly. “But how did it get in a kid? We only use them for sanctioned targets, high risks to… to the country--”

Jack sags against the console, dragging a hand across his mouth. He stares at the indisputable evidence of their tech’s misuse and considers the implications. None of them are good.

Ginger grips her datapad tightly. “We have to tell Champagne.”

Champagne. The boss. Fuck.

It was Jack who sold him on the pitch of these blood trackers in the first place. Their panel of scientists may have vetted the proposal, but he was the senior agent who signed off on Statesman’s joint development of this particular iteration. Now to find it in a kid brought to him by his _brother?_

Champagne would have his hide. If they launched an investigation, he could kiss that promotion to New York goodbye.

“If someone’s leaking our patent… or if our partner’s been selling it--” Ginger cuts off at his raised hand.

One thing at a time.

He holds her eye and points to the diagram on the monitor. “Back this up on an external drive and clear all record of these scans. This stays between us. I’ll deal with Champagne. You just focus on getting it out of the kid tomorrow when he wakes up.”

“Can we even do that?” Ginger’s expression is incredulous. Her wide eyes dart around the lab. “Jack, that means I need to bring him in here! We can’t bring in non-personnel.”

“If he’s got our tech in him, we can.”

Ginger clutches the datapad to her stomach. “I don’t think those two will let us take him away.”

She’s not wrong. Even if his brother’s attitude wasn’t deterrent enough, the obnoxious walking wall of muscle would have something to say about it.

“I’ve got a plan for that.”

///

_“Only one of you can be chosen.”_

Din hasn’t dreamed of this in years.

But it’s as clear as the day he lived it, the moment he and his brother exchanged a cold look of realisation and he watched Jack’s face contort in anger.

“Don’t--” Jack began.

But Din was always a faster shot than his brother.

There were only three of them standing in that room when Statesman put a gun in their hands and left them to decide who among them would become the newest recruit. The assessment had persevered for days. Physically, Din could have gone for many days more. But mentally, he knew he had to end it.

The third among them dropped like a puppet released from its strings when Din shot him in the shoulder, and immediately laid down his weapon. Weaving his hands behind his head, he ignored the furious look in his brother’s eyes as he kneeled, addressing the cameras.

“That’s it!” he called to their unseen spectators. He jerked his chin at his brother. “There’s your agent. It’s over!”

Jack may have dreamed of them joining Statesman together, but it was only _his_ dream. Everywhere, always; together. Just thinking of it again makes the air feel stifled.

“Din,” Jack growls, trembling. His gun is pointed at the downed man. “What have you done?”

Din shakes his head, voice quiet enough hopefully the surveillance won’t hear him. “I’ve had enough, Jack.”

But Jack doesn’t seem to hear him. Towering over his kneeled position, Jack’s voice is thunderous. “What the _hell_ did you do?”

He looks to their third and this time, Din follows his gaze. 

His heart almost stops in his chest.

Because it’s not a man, but a gently squirming tangle of blankets on the floor. A small, dark arm emerges from the bundle, reaching weakly. A sworn oath dies in his throat as he throws himself across the tile, but the motion beneath the blankets is already slowing. The thick pool of blood grows.

“--No, it’s not possible… kid?” Din scrambles to gather him up, but the blankets are empty. Oh no. No, he didn’t mean to. How did this happen? He was so careful. He was… no…. 

His eyes burn with tears and he crumples the barren blankets in his hands. _“Kid?”_

Jack’s roar fills him, _“What did you do?”_

He gasps awake, heart pounding in his chest, the accusation still ringing in his ears. Darkness greets and engulfs him. Gulping in shallow, greedy breaths of air, he scrambles at his side for light. His hand closes round the sharp corner of a table. The lead of something. A lamp. 

He flinches at the warm flood of light but it’s an instant relief when he’s able to make out his surroundings. 

Statesman. He brought them back here. What was he thinking?

 _Safe_ , another lifelong voice in him counters. _Jack is safe._

Except when he’s not.

He startles at the touch on his knuckles in the bedspread and looks down to find the kid on all fours, crawling from his blankets.

The kid?

“Aaah,” the little one squeals, pushing himself up on Din’s forearm in an attempt to stand, legs wobbly. His smile is wide and cheeky, maybe delighted at the unexpected opportunity to play when he should be sleeping.

The guilty panic of the dream is still tight in Din’s chest. The touch on his arm feels unreal and with the child’s very tangible weight leaning into him, the kid has barely straightened before Din’s face has twisted, mouth wrenching in a silent gasp for air. He scoops the child up and buries his face in his tiny shoulder, shaking. The relief is overwhelming.

His tears are silent. He doesn’t say anything. The child wouldn’t understand him anyway.

_I promise. I promise._

Maybe the rocking is more for his own benefit than the child’s, judging by the kid’s annoyed noises and squirming in his arms. When he finally relents and loosens his hold, the child pulls himself higher up Din’s chest with hands that will probably stretch his collar.

Din sniffs and the kid stares at him, expression unreadable. How did people ever tell what was going on with kids anyway?

“Sorry,” he sighs, wiping his nose apologetically on the back of his sleeve. He shouldn’t cry in front of a kid. He’s pretty sure the comfort was supposed to flow the other way.

The child bounces in his lap, those small hands push at his chest. “Ehhn!” He sounds scolding.

Din sighs again. “Don’t beat me up, man. I’ve had a long day.”

“Aaaaah.” The kid seems to scoff, leaning into him, mouth agape and Din has to lean away to avoid the kid latching onto his chin and slobbering all over his neck. Again. Drool drips down onto his shirt instead.

Din pulls a face. “Do you think you could not drool on all my clothes?”

The kid laughs giddily, hands tight in his shirt as it bounces on his thighs, unfairly energetic for their mutual lack of sleep. Din startles when the kid throws itself against his front in an unmistakable hug, arms wrapping around his neck. The babble in his ear is more questioning this time.

Warmth blooms in his chest. Carefully, he wraps both arms around the child in return. As if by magic, the tension begins to ease from his chest to his shoulders, and on. Air comes easier.

He checks the time on his phone. 3:40am. Nothing to do but sleep. Might as well try it this way. 

“Okay,” he concedes, a hand on the child’s back to hold him steady when he leans over to flick off the lamp. “Just this time.”

The kid barely weighs a thing and is a surprisingly comforting weight on his breastbone as he lays down, tucking the blankets in around them. The kid squirms gently against his chest, getting comfortable and cooing nonsense.

“Stop moving,” Din murmurs, patting his back through the blanket.

Another coo comes, a simple, sweet note of question.

“Shh,” Din rubs his back, other hand closed around the shape of the kid’s foot under the blanket. “Shh.”

With the kid’s soft noises fading, Din finds himself also drifting and the last thing he registers before sleep takes him is the unmistakable damp of drool seeping into his shirt. He’s too tired to care.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack claps, bringing the child’s attention back to him. He smiles indulgently. “Come to Papi.”
> 
> “Don’t do that,” Din growls.

Ginger stares at the lines of text spilling down the length of her monitor and releases a heavy, trembling sigh. Her hands hover at the keyboard. Her vision is blurring and she's starting to feel light-headed from all the missed sleep of the night before.

After helping Jack with his after-hours family emergency, she had some personal things to address. And these things had a deadline.

A glance to the clock in the bottom right of her monitor has her heart jump with a shot of adrenaline. 6:50AM. Already? Sucking in another quick breath, she forces herself to release it over the count of four slow breaths. Again, in and out, even slower this time, counting to six. By the third slow exhale, she’s drawing air without the feeling of invisible weight on her collar.

The application is almost complete. She just needs to write the concluding remarks on her cover letter… and then get Jack to endorse her nomination to field agent.

Swallowing thickly, her fingers curl to loose fists.

"Ginger?"

She jumps from her chair and whirls, monitor shielded with her back, hands splayed wide.

From the doorway, Jack has poked his head through, an eyebrow raised in question. Ginger didn't hear the latch open. Freshly shaven and bare of his customary moustache, Jack doesn't look like himself. That's the point, though it's unsettling. Jack hasn’t been without it the entire time she’s known him.

This Fall will mark her seventh anniversary with Statesman as an analyst.

He frowns at her suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"Just--" Ginger waves a dismissive hand and hopes she's angling herself to block her work. Her cheeks heat with embarrassment. "Some personal admin."

"Well, finish it later and get moving. These halls will be busy soon and I don't want an audience."

Her heart skips a beat, chastised. "Right. Right, I'll--" She turns to quickly save and close her work, locking down her station.

Out in the hallway, they fall in step, Ginger moving quickly to keep up with Jack's longer stride. From the corner of her eye, she watches him draw the back of a self-conscious hand across his upper lip.

"It looks all right," she tries to encourage him, voice light. 

His lip curls, grumbling. "I feel naked as a fresh baby's bottom."

"You look younger." Like a fresh recruit, but with broader shoulders. 

Jack seems to agree because he sighs, pushing through a tight jaw, “That ain't a good thing, Ginger."

Leaving the secure wing and emerging onto the grounds, Ginger sharply inhales the cool blast of the dawn, eyes watering. Datapad clutched to her chest, she looks to the pale grey sky and sucks in a deeper breath, willing herself awake. The fresh air tastes cold and clean. She'll need all her senses for the task ahead.

Just a little bit of conceit: like a preliminary mission to demonstrate what she's capable of.

Entering the public buildings of the estate, she waits for Jack as he draws the door shut behind them. He always tried to be a gentleman… it’d be nice if he also didn’t yell so much. 

Continuing on, Ginger has to clear her throat twice before she trusts her voice won't crack. The heated, recycled air feels almost too warm after the brief passage outside. "W-when we're done here, I could use your help with something."

Jack raises an eyebrow at her, the expression quickly slipping into his genial charm when they’re spotted by the front guards at reception. They both nod back in greeting. "All right," Jack's tone is dubious.

"Your endorsement, actually," she clarifies, throat tightening with sudden nervousness, and she keeps her eyes ahead as they turn the corridor to guest accommodation.

Up ahead, she can hear the tinkle of dishes and the soft murmur of chatter from the cafeteria.

Beside her, Jack has straightened his shoulders, expression drawn tight. After a long moment, he finally speaks, halting, "Look, darlin'--"

The flip of her stomach makes Ginger rush to interrupt, turning on him with a bright smile. "Just think about it! Wait here." She gestures to the storage closet as they approach. "And I'll go get him."

Marching away with the datapad tight against her side, she willfully blocks out any sigh or stray comment that might reach her ears. She doesn’t want to hear it right now. She can’t afford to. It's probably unbecoming of Statesman agents to run from potential criticism considering all the other things they would face in the field… but first, she has to get into the field. Right now, Jack is the only thing standing between her and a re-classification. 

Nobody else at this site could possibly compete with her training or hours invested in the lab and as mission support. She knows this branch inside and out. She is the next best person equipped to protect its interests from the front lines. And she can do the job just as well as Jack.

One hurdle at a time.

Thankfully, none of the sparse crowd in the cafeteria give her a second glance. True to Jack’s assumption, the men she’s looking for are awake. Ginger spots them seated by the far wall, affording one of the best vantages of all the tables and counter of food assembly.

The two men are seated across from each other, emptied plates of breakfast before them, though she can see Din occupied with a smaller plate, pushing something around with his fork. On the chair beside him, the child sits with his legs splayed, blinking up at Din with more patience and curiosity than she has ever witnessed in a toddler not falling asleep. Barely eye level with the table in its over-large onesie, his tiny fingertips barely peek beyond his thick, padded sleeves and the brown collar bunching around his shoulders. These men either don’t know how to dress this child or are low on options. 

Ginger has no place to judge.

Drawing closer, she catches the end of Din’s terse, “What the fuck are fairy lights?”

The taller man, Paz, turns his phone and, over Din’s shoulder, Ginger sees the portrait of a car’s front interior at night: small lights thread across the cloud grey roof of the cabin like softly haloed stars. One of the cords trails down the open passenger side window like a lead back to the real world from the dream of the whimsical refuge. At the photo’s lower end, someone is holding an unfolded map open to the camera’s eye: an invitation to adventure on the open road.

Din frowns, shaking his head and decisively spears another small portion of waffle. On the chair beside him, the child snaps to attention and bounces, gasping with excitement, small arms waving at the fork’s approach.

Despite Ginger’s exhaustion from the long night, a smile tugs at her mouth. What a beautiful child.

“Sit still,” Din orders, holding the fork hostage until the kid looks back into his face and splits into a pure, bright laugh at whatever he sees there.

Paz glances up from his phone, looking between them. A slow smile curves his mouth, small and private. His relaxed slouch is a far leap from the hostile bodyguard who towered over Ginger last night, shoulders squared, suspicious and domineering. He only cracked in the moment the baby cried at the sight of the needle. If they had met under different circumstances, Ginger would have even called him handsome with his plaid lumberjack sense of style.

“I think he would like them,” Paz is encouraging, appraising the photo again. 

“We don’t need it.”

“They’re free.”

“From _where?”_

Ginger finally clears her throat and holds her datapad against her side, smiling with an apologetic shrug when they both sit back, looking up at her. Jack’s brother nods politely in greeting. Under his worn cap, Din’s eyes look heavy and red-rimmed, shadowed with the faint bruise of exhaustion. Maybe Ginger isn’t the only one who lost sleep last night.

Across from him, Paz looks spry by comparison. He’s not wearing his cap this morning, and his dark hair gleams wet from a recent shower. But something subtle has shifted in his expression. The soft smile has slipped away. His gaze narrows and he straightens in his chair. This one will be watching her. 

At their mutual, undivided attention, her mouth is suddenly dry.

“Good morning,” she says.

The kid catches the neck of Din’s fork and hums when he retreats with his prize of waffles, eyes crinkled happily. A drip of maple syrup escapes from the corner of his mouth.

Ginger has to resist the impulse to lean over and wipe it away.

Paz does it for her, reaching across the table to thumb it from the kid’s cheek and wipe his finger on the napkin by Din’s plate. The kid doesn’t miss a beat, already rising in his seat to reach for more of the dissected waffle. 

“Morning,” Din says it like a sigh, and Ginger feels that weary sentiment in her bones. She doesn’t take it personally. “Ginger, right?”

“Agent Ginger Ale,” she corrects, then nodding, “Ginger is fine.” At least she hasn’t left an impression as the scary woman with the needle.

“Good morning,” Paz echoes, tone surprisingly bright. For some reason, Din frowns at him.

“I hope you both had a chance to try their hash browns,” Ginger says, glancing back at the food counter and the few staff milling around this early in the morning, easily distinguishable by the IDs dangling from their lapels. “They’re my favourite.”

Din’s arms fold on the table before him, gently closing around his elbows. The child frowns when the gesture pushes the waffle plate farther from his reach. Stepping carefully along his seat and holding onto the table’s edge for balance, the child tries again, eyes narrowed in intense concentration. From across the table, Paz watches, mouth curving with a fond, amused quirk.

With a glance at the counter, Din nods. “The food was fine.”

She flashes a quick smile at him again and hopes it doesn’t tremble. Small talk isn’t her strongest suit. “We’re ready for you two.”

Din straightens in his seat. “Now?”

The kid stills with a tiny handful of waffle like he’s been caught. “Beh?”

She nods, stepping back to give him space. “You and him.” She looks at Paz and finds him already watching her. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to wait out here.”

Paz looks from her to Din, slow and considering. “How long will you be?”

Ginger tilts her head, scanning the room as she considers the time it will take them to get back. Do the swap. Get in the lab. Hope nobody stops them and then get the kid on that table... “An hour. Maybe less.”

Paz looks back to Din. “I’ll go check on Missy.”

Din just shrugs a shoulder, seeming noncommittal. 

Ginger blinks. “Missy?”

“It’s his cat,” Din rises and scoops the kid up under his armpits, then blinks wide, startled at the squawk of indignation in his ear because the motion made the kid drop his waffle. 

“Cat?” Ginger hasn’t seen a cat in person in so long. She misses cats.

“She’s waiting,” Paz explains, also rising to his feet. “In the car.”

Oh. All by herself? No, it’s not her business. Focus.

“When you come back, tell the front desk you’re here for me and Jack,” she tells Paz. 

Din hands the child another portion of waffle, syrup-free, and watches him shovel it into his mouth with an expression between judging and amused, shaking his head quietly. Wiping his hand on his worn jeans, Din meets Paz’s gaze, and his smile fades slightly. It could be Ginger’s imagination but in that space of a heartbeat, the air seems to thicken with a strange tension. 

And then Din looks to her. “Give us a minute?”

“Of course,” she shakes her head, palms raised. No problem. “I’ll be right out front. But please be quick.”

///

Din waits until Ginger is out of hearing range, white coat rippling behind her. When he looks to Paz, he finds the man smiling at the kid, gently pinching his cheek. 

“You don’t have to,” Din says.

Paz’s gaze flicks to him, frowning slightly. “What?”

“Come back. If you want to head on your way now. You got us this far. That’s enough.”

Paz pauses, glancing to the child wiping his mouth against Din’s shoulder. Paz is hard to read, but Din is pretty sure the rapid blinking, searching gaze means ‘kind of stunned’, yet he still arrives at, “Yeah. Okay.”

A fist inexplicably closes around Din’s lungs. “Yeah?”

Paz nods, hands coming to a rest on his hips. “I mean. I’m in no rush, but... we got you back to your brother.”

Din almost snorts a laugh. The reunion with Jack is not something he’s celebrating.

“And if you feel safe here….”

Din frowns, but doesn’t correct him. Safe? Getting here wasn’t about safety. Jack had resources they needed. There are too many bad memories wound up in this place and Din will be out of here as soon as they’re done. But he won’t need Paz for that.

“We’ll be fine,” Din says, rather than dispute him. Paz has done more than enough for them, and Din doesn’t like being indebted to people. He shuffles the kid higher against his side, freeing his right hand. He offers it to Paz. “Thank you.”

Paz has many different smiles. Din wonders if the man knows that about himself. This one is… difficult to name. Paz considers the hand Din has offered him and chuckles under his breath. The hand that clasps Din back is firm and powerful, but unlike their first handshake, doesn’t pretend to crush him in his grip. 

That was only funny the first time.

They had just met. Paz had emerged from the dark of the Waffle House’s lot like some kind of hellish spectre, spewing fire and barking at Din to get down. He’d placed the flamethrower in Din’s hands so he could take the wheel once aboard his truck. Din promptly turned it on him. And Paz had just put up his hands, fearless, gaze serious.

_“You can roast me later, but I can get you far from here.”_

Paz hadn’t held it against him. Trust was earned. Everyone and their dog had been chasing this child. And Paz was the only one laying cover fire; well-equipped for a private citizen. Din might have been more suspicious if Paz wasn’t clearly just from the country and living on the open road. If Din had space and means, he would be doing the same.

“The honour was mine,” Paz insists with that rare, quiet gravity that always made Din feel like the air was clearing, like he was peeling a shade of the world back on something significant but could never hold it long enough to understand what he was seeing. Paz releases him and gently cups the back of the kid’s head. The little one twists around for a better look at him. “Look after him, kiddo.”

The kid frowns, lips parting in a soft shape of confusion. Din wonders if he’ll even remember Paz in a week’s time.

Belatedly, Din realises they still have the mess of their breakfast on the table before them. As though reading his mind, Paz shakes his head, waving him off. 

“I’ll clean this up. You go. That woman sounds like you're in a hurry.”

Din’s heart thuds in his chest. They’re never going to see him again and it feels… abrupt. Seven days of sharing meals, of waking to the rock and sway of the road beneath him and Paz at the truck’s wheel, that darned cat nuzzling against him for space on the cabin’s small bed. It’s been so long since he travelled with anyone. Did saying goodbye always feel this heavy? And unfairly easy?

“Are you sure?”

Paz is already turning away, collecting their plates. He waves Din off. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

They’re just ships passing in the night. That has always been his life. Din nods mechanically and feels the child’s small hand clutch at his collar.

“Thank you.” 

_Thank you for taking a risk for us. Until our paths cross again. Be safe._

Arms tight around the child, Din turns and leaves. The child yawns in his ear and Din takes the reminder to take a deep breath, putting their new friend behind them. Maybe some goodbyes just have to be understated, no matter how big they feel.

"Din." 

His heart thumps hard and his breath catches in his throat. When he looks back, Paz nods with a two-fingered salute. His smile is kind.

"Good luck."

"Ehn," the kid complains, twisting in Din's arms and flopping overbackwards, almost falling right out of his hold, _what the hell, kid?_

Heart leaping, Din catches the kid just in time, mentally cursing and wondering why-- what is _wrong_ with this kid-- but he shoves those thoughts to the side and gives Paz a tight nod of thanks. The guy’s smile widens, and Din rushes from the cafeteria before he can embarrass himself further.

"Hey," Din commands, bouncing the whining kid to get his attention. "Settle."

The kid sags in his arms, and his head hangs with a pout.

Ginger smiles when she sees him (what does he do to keep earning that from people? Must be the kid) and leads them to a storage closet of all places.

It's larger than it looks from the outside: several shelves deep full of industrial cleaning supplies and equipment. It smells of bleach and dust. Overhead, a fan whirs noisily from the air vent. In the clear walking space before them, Jack stands by an empty steel chair set on a small square of tarpaulin. He smiles brightly upon seeing the kid, arms spread wide in welcome.

“There he is!”

Meeting Jack’s eye, the kid bursts into delighted giggles and curls away, hiding his face against Din’s chest. Kids are weird.

Jack catches Din’s eye and nods. "Sit. You can hold him.”

The door clicks shut behind them, and Din glances back to see Ginger standing guard.

Din frowns, eyeing the familiar tool in Jack's hand. "What's going on?"

"We're taking care of that tracker," Jack slaps the seat's back as though it's a prized ride. He brandishes the hair trimmer. "But first you need a haircut. Time is short. Sit and I'll explain.”

Ten minutes later, Din is freshly shorn (uncomfortably so), and testing the give in the shoulders of his new outfit. Jack’s clothes are heavier than they look, warmer, too, but loose.

“Did you gain weight?” he frowns at his brother. 

Jack sneers at him, lacing up his boots. “Or did you just lose too much muscle?”

“Why’d you have to shave your moustache?”

Jack straightens like a shot and glares at him, offended. “Hey, I thought you shaved yours, too, all right! It’s been a long night.”

“Feel naked,” Din grumbles, mournfully rubbing his bare upper lip. It doesn’t feel right.

Straightening side-by-side, the two brothers size each other up, clothes exchanged, groomed to match, a near perfect mirror image. Din stares at the beaver blend cowboy hat and slowly puts it on with a groan.

“You’re not standing right,” Jack says.

“We don’t all have a stick up our ass,” Din mutters.

Jack points at him accusingly. “Fix your stance, or we’re goin’ to get nowhere real fast!”

“Shh!” Ginger hushes, looking specifically at Jack with alarm. “Keep it down!”

“Fine,” Din mutters and cocks a hip out, hands on his waist in his most insulting impression of his brother’s dumb bravado at rest. “How’s this?”

Not at all deterred, Jack takes a different tact. “Well, let’s find out.” He turns to the child waddling through the short tufts of hair strewn from Din’s haircut on the tarpaulin. “Hey, Green Bean.”

The child looks up with a questioning sound, a small hand wrapped around the chair’s leg.

Jack smiles. “C’mere.”

And something in Din rails watching his brother in his clothes, holding out his arms, smiling as Din never would (or could); and his heart kicks in his chest when the child totters towards him with a happy noise, arms lifting up.

No, Jack hasn’t earned that.

"Kid,” Din orders in the same voice he always has, irrationally hoping the kid will recognise him: the one who has watched over him these past days, fed and washed him, let him drool against his shoulder, and kept him from gnawing on their weapons. 

The kid halts halfway to Jack, and looks back at him, searching his face. He squints adorably.

Din almost smiles, but thinks better of it, imagining how unnatural it would look. Instead, he points at himself. “Who’s this?”

“Ehn?” The kid blinks, turning more fully to look at him. Din knows he’s only a child, but something in his expression is more aware, more articulated and mature than any child has a right to be. Is that what people mean when they say they see an old soul?

Jack claps, bringing the child’s attention back to him. He smiles indulgently. “Come to Papi.”

“Don’t do that,” Din growls. 

Thankfully, Ginger chooses that moment to step back in. “Jack, it’s almost eight. Come on.”

Sighing with disappointment as though he’s been deprived of his game, Jack rises back to his feet and unclips his ID, offering it to his brother. Just as Din is about to take it, Jack holds it back, and makes sure he has his brother’s undivided attention.

“Din’ika, I’m trusting you _not_ to commit crimes against the state in my name while you wear this. It’s a big responsibility which I know you know ‘cause you couldn’t run from it fast enough.”

Scowling, Din snatches the ID and clips it to the chest pocket of his suit jacket. It’s a different set of clothes from what Jack wore yesterday, but he doesn’t think either of these two went home. The thought that they worked through the night for the kid is the only thing staying his tongue, and discomfort squirms again in his chest. Jack will hold this debt over him for a while to come.

“Need to go over the plan again?” Jack asks, looking between Ginger and Din.

“We get in the lab, Ginger removes the chip, we come back, swap, and we’re out of your lives,” Din says. He watches the child around Jack’s knee, the little one sliding down to his bottom, grabbing a fistfull of short, brown hair and throwing it to the side in a full body motion. Giggling, the child does it again, watching the strands scatter and flutter like grass.

“Sweet and simple,” Jack smirks, but claps a hand round his brother’s shoulder, focuses on Ginger with intent. “You do everything this woman tells you, all right? You don’t speak to anyone. You don’t go anywhere or touch anything ‘less she tells you to.”

Din meets Ginger’s slightly startled look and cocks his head with a shrug. “You’re the boss.”

Jack fixes him with a raised finger in warning. “I would never say that.”

“It’s okay,” Ginger assures Din, as though she’s brushing Jack aside. “I’ll take care of you.”

But as his brother is turning away, something else occurs to Din. He doesn’t know why he thinks of it. 

“Wait.” 

Jack gives him an arched look. Din gestures between the two of them and thumbs the thin necklace of leather at his neck. “Should we….?”

Should they swap this, too?

Jack’s sober look wipes all other emotion from his face. He hesitates, eyes falling to Din’s neck. Something hardens behind his gaze. “Ni trikari, ni ne'lise.”

Din shouldn’t have asked in the first place. He nods, palming the shape of the steel amulet beneath his shirt. He can’t see any impression of Jack’s through his, but Din knows his twin must still wear its counterpart. No matter what else has passed between them, this one thing would not have changed. “Gar serim.”

“Hey.” Jack clasps his shoulder firmly, voice quiet. “No one will look that far. Trust me.”

Gratitude warms through the tight feeling that had briefly clenched his chest. Even the thought of parting with his own makes him tense. He doesn’t have many personal effects, but the pendant….

Ginger is watching them with a curious frown. “What language is that?” she asks gently.

Din’s stomach swoops. He glances at his brother, but sees none of his own wariness reflected back. It makes him feel better.

“An old one,” is all Jack says, then claps his hands together. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando'a translations taken from the [Mando'a forum thread of common phrases](https://forum.mandoa.org/viewtopic.php?f=7&t=149) (and yes, the place of this language in this 'verse and the fact the twins know some is not an accident):
> 
> Ni trikari, ni ne'lise. / I'm sorry, I can't  
> Gar serim. / You're right


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paz smiles. Scanning the four of them head to toe, he makes his assessment within the length of an exhale. Four on one.
> 
> “You should have brought more men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the updated tags for violence warnings. None too explicit, but the Big Mouse wouldn't endorse this on Disney Plus.

Following Ginger to her lab takes longer than it should. Din reaches down to pick up the child, and the kid blurts a sound of protest, scampering away on surprisingly fast legs. Still bent and now frowning, Din frowns in confusion. 

“Hey. Where are you going?”

Pausing to see if he’s still watching, the kid squeals and takes off running at the brush of Din’s touch on his sides.

“Kid!” Din shakes his head. What’s wrong with him?

Waiting at the store room’s door, Ginger beckons with her head. “Come on, baby,” she coaxes, light and playful.

The kid stops and stares at her like a moth caught in a beacon of light.

Ginger smiles and pats her thigh. “Come on!”

His little face breaks into a mirror of her smile and Din watches him charge into her side with a chortling laugh of delight. Ginger gently ruffles his thick hair. Does the kid remember this is the same woman who stuck him with a needle the night before? Does he run to her now because he forgives her? Is memory that short term for children?

And how do some people just inspire that sort of smile out of kids? What is it?

Din thinks of Paz with his face buried in the kid’s belly, eliciting a helpless scream of laughter. 

His heart thuds and his hand tightens at his side.

“Make it quick,” Jack murmurs, and Din meets his brother’s serious look. Rallies his focus.

Right.

///

The kid proves happy to follow along at Ginger’s knee and nobody stops them through the halls nor the open grounds. They only have to slow a few times so he can keep up. Din squints up at the rusted water tower and enormous wooden barrels lining the gravel paths, all bearing the ‘Statesman’ logo tall and proud. Waving at a small group of smiling tour guides in polo ‘Statesman’ shirts, Ginger brings them to the heavy door of one of the long, black warehouses.

Nose twitching, Din raises his head, scanning the grounds. 

Ginger glances back at him. “What is it?”

“They still hold studs on the grounds?”

Ginger’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Yes. They used to pull the wagons for Statesman supply lines in the early days. How did you know?”

Some things hadn’t changed in all the years that passed. They were supposed to phase out the old stable. Something about it being too expensive.

Din shrugs, gesturing to his nose. “I can smell them.”

“Smell the horses?”

“Well. Not the horses themselves.”

She smiles, amused, and flashes her badge, thumbing a gold brass handle that beeps. A heavy, clanking sound resonates from within the door and what looks like oak reveals itself as thick, reinforced steel. The heavy security door slides away with a mechanical hiss, and they follow Ginger inside.

The aroma of old wood and cold air fills Din’s nose. Long shadows hold row upon row of tall wooden barrels of Statesman brew in their shelves, three storeys high. The child totters after Ginger’s heels as she leads them down a familiar path to the concealed entrance of one of the largest barrels lying on its side.

With each step, Din’s chest tightens. He draws in a steadying breath when the barrel’s oaken lid slides away. The gleaming white light of Statesman’s true heart makes him squint in the glare, harsh in the warehouse’s dim.

The kid runs ahead into the elevator, palms pressed to the glowing walls, curious and undaunted. 

Ginger looks back at Din, hesitating on the threshold. “You all right?”

Everything is just as he left it. Squaring his jaw, Din nods.

The kid behaves himself on the ride down, head craned back and blinking at the lights rushing past. Din extends a hand behind his head, wary he’ll fall backwards.

“We didn’t find him on missing persons,” Ginger says.

Din looks at her.

“We raked through every state’s federal database, but nobody’s filed a missing persons report for this kid. How long ago did you find him?” 

Din’s jaw tightens. He glances to the control panel. “A week.”

She nods absently, dark eyes watching him from behind her horn-rimmed glasses. “Is there anything more you can tell me about him?”

“He’s… being pursued by some powerful people.”

“Any names?”

“I only knew them as the Client.”

Ginger huffs with a sigh and the elevator doors slide open. “Well, we’ll work with what we have.”

Polished steel halls loom before them bathed in white fluorescence . Din’s stomach drops, vision tunneling. Emerging into Statesman’s lower corridors, the familiar recycled, sterile air makes him wince and pull upright. He never wanted to come back here.

Slow breaths.

Focus.

“Jack said you were looking into the fob. Have you learned anything useful?”

He follows Ginger, ears ringing with the phantom storm of boots racing past. Blinking his vision clear, thankfully, the halls are virtually empty. Only one or two others in white lab coats pass them with kind smiles of greeting when Ginger meets their eye. Nobody stops them or has reason to question a known agent walking with Ginger’s quick and confident stride. 

While the veneer is all the same, this entrance is new and these halls unfamiliar. Din just keeps pace and tries to look like he knows where he’s going.

Ginger pitches her voice low as they walk, head bent towards him. Hand digging into her white coat pocket, she shows Din the fob Jack handed her the night before: small, dark and square with two triangulating antennae, almost like a walkie talkie. “The fob itself isn’t remarkable.”

Din nods. “It’s standard issue for the Eastern guilds.”

Ginger steals a second look at him. “Yours?”

“I had one like it.”

He can feel her staring and ignores it. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

Decommissioned. He glances back the way they had come and waits for the child to catch up. “Freelance.”

“Well... “ Ginger pockets the fob, reflecting his shrug. “What's interesting is the detection range: it's weak compared to the transmitter’s strength. Half at best.”

Din frowns. “What does that mean?”

“It means if someone was smart enough, they could modify these fobs to find your kid from a lot farther away. It wouldn’t take much.”

Din’s blood chills. “How far?”

“A lot farther. Your best chance is to remove it or deactivate it,” Ginger says, voice flat as they come to a T-intersection. “My lab is just up ahead.” She sounds relieved and Din is sympathetic. Jack’s boots have more heel than he’s accustomed to.

"Agent Ginger Ale!"

Ginger freezes. 

Din looks down the hall and finds an older man frowning at them from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Dressed in blue denim and dark leathers, he frowns like a disapproving guardian who has caught his wards somewhere they shouldn’t be.

"Oh no," Ginger curses under her breath.

Din glances at her as the man gestures accusingly, calling, "Whose baby is that?"

Glancing between Ginger and the child suddenly cowering behind his own knee, Din realises the older man has made an assumption by virtue of the fact both Ginger and the kid are black.

"Uh--" The confident air she had worn the whole journey evaporates like mist beneath the sun’s glare. Hands spread as though for balance, Ginger raises her voice. She glances to the older man, but her gaze drops just as quickly. "M-my nephew, Sir! I'm sorry we couldn't get a baby-sitter. He won't be any trouble."

Her superior, then.

"This isn't a daycare," the man sounds incredulous. "You know non-personnel aren't allowed in this area."

Small fingers dig into Din’s knee and the kid’s weight leans against him. Watching Ginger shrink on herself, chin almost to her chest because Din put her in this position, he can't stand it.

"It was my call, Sir," he interrupts before the man can harass her any further. He inwardly winces at his clumsy attempt of Jack's accent and hopes it's passable enough to get them out of here. "I told her it was fine. Family is... is everything."

Yeah, that sounds like something Jack would say.

Ginger is staring at him with eyes as large as dinner plates. He’s not sure what her exact job is, but she’s not very subtle for the employee of an organisation specialising in subterfuge and intelligence.

At the other end of the hall, the man sighs with a hand covering his eyes, shaking his head. "I do _not_ want you two setting a precedent. Ginger, I sympathise with your family, but this can't happen again."

"Yes, Sir," she answers automatically, gaze still averted.

"You do not let that child out of your sight," the man continues.

Her shoulders relax a fraction. "Yes, Sir."

Din releases the tight breath he’d been holding. The man is going to let them pass.

"Agent Whiskey," the man calls and Din's stomach drops when he's beckoned with a firm hand. "Walk with me."

Heart racing, Din scrambles for an excuse. He looks back at Ginger and sees only his quiet panic reflected back at him.

"Sorry, Sir,” he stumbles, “I really need to supervise--"

The man's expression narrows, grey moustache twitching. "I'm not about to lose capacity of _two_ of my agents. You can all play happy family later."

As if sensing his rising agitation, the kid clings to his knee with a soft whimper, eyes peering up at him large and worried. Din’s stomach churns with nerves. His hands are clammy. Picking up the child, he briefly turns his back on the other man so he won't witness Din level his agent with a cold warning. 

"If you so much as touch him before I get there-- if you take him _anywhere--_ "

"I won't, I won't," Ginger whispers urgently. Carefully receiving the child, she leans him against her shoulder and coos reassuringly when the child looks back at Din with a fearful pout.

Din ignores the small hand that reaches for him.

"His name is Champagne, he's the head of Statesman. Don't say anything that could expose you or we'll _all_ pay for it," Ginger pleads.

Not to mention that Jack would murder him.

"Whiskey!"

Din's jaw tightens at the barked order. Glancing back to the man impatiently leaning hands on his hips, Din nods in deferral.

"I'll circle back as soon as I can," he murmurs and Ginger nods, looking just as nervous as he feels, which is not at all comforting.

"Second door on the right. The opaque glass. You can't miss it." Ginger rubs the child's back. "Good luck."

///

The storeroom proves more conducive to clearing Jack’s backlog of admin than he expects. He doesn’t even need a desk, seated in the same chair where he cut Din’s hair. Laptop balanced on his knee, he’s frowning at the closing paragraph of Ginger’s job application when his phone rings.

Speak of the devil.

“Problem?”

“Jack,” Ginger hisses. The tight urgency in her voice immediately straightens him in his chair. “Champagne took him. He thought he was you and called him for a meeting.”

Jack’s ears ring. Din was with Champagne?

_“What meeting? And you let him go?”_

“What was I going to do? Say no to _Champagne?”_

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. “Fuck!”

“I have the kid. I’ll keep him safe, but-- I thought you should know.”

Jack snarls, phone pressed tight to his cheek. “You’re damn right I should know.” Under his breath, he mutters to himself, “Shouldn’t have trusted you with this in the first place.”

Silence reigns from the other end of the line as Jack mentally pulls a plan together.

“Well, you didn’t have to trust me. But you know you can,” Ginger finally says, voice hard, though a little hoarse. “I can stage a fire drill. Force him to leave his office. I’ll grab your brother as everyone clears the area.”

Jack blinks rapidly, pulling a face. “Ginger, we’re trying _not_ to draw attention here. Step one: call Lucy and tell her someone authorised one of the new R&Ds in his name. She’ll pass it on immediately: he hates when people go outside their delegations. He’ll come down to yell at them personally--”

Ginger’s tone is scandalised. “I’m the Strategy Executive, _who do you think he’ll yell at?”_

Jack barrels on, ignoring the interruption. “Step two: you get Din out of there. Step three: you finish the job. Step four: bring them back like you were supposed to in the first place.”

“Fine.”

The call hangs up unceremoniously and Jack stares at his phone in surprise. That was uncharacteristic of her. If she had taken a few minutes, she might have reached a good solution herself, but she was right. Jack would have wanted to know anyway.

Ginger was struggling to keep a cool head. If this was a sign of her coping under pressure….

Jack hums, looking back to her application waiting on his laptop. He is not inspired with confidence.

///

Champagne. Ginger Ale. Whiskey. 

Din’s seeing the trend here. 

“You’re in early,” Champagne smiles, leading him down a short hallway to what’s revealed to be another elevator. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” Din answers, not at all surprised that Jack still doesn’t appear to be an early riser. Then belatedly, “Sir.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him.

Their ascent is quiet, steady and as swift as the ride that brought Din into the estate’s bowels. Champagne is a man comfortable with silence, soaking it in, still and pondering, for which Din is grateful. He’s still a little surprised to see the blinding rays of the early morning sun from their new elevation when Champagne brings them into a grand room with a long table, wall to wall with bookshelves and a thick, heavy desk at the back. A proud display of Statesman’s golden product stands on a gleaming silver tray by the window.

This must be Champagne’s office.

The door hinges creak behind them and Din looks back just in time to see a petite brunette wink at him as the doors are pulled shut, affording sudden and uncomfortable privacy.

How is he going to get out of here?

Nodding thoughtfully, Champagne strolls over to his desk and perches on its edge. “I know it’s coming up to the anniversary soon,” his tone is quiet and conciliatory. “If you need some time, I can take it into consideration.”

Din frowns. What anniversary?

Champagne shakes his head, gaze faraway. “Some things, time can’t really heal.”

Oh. _Oh._

Din never learned the exact date, but it adds up: Jack did lose his wife and unborn child about three years ago. Swallowing thickly, he nods with gratitude. “Thank you, Sir, I’ll let you know.”

Champagne grunts in amusement, almost like he doesn’t believe Din. The idea of Jack not taking the time to grieve doesn’t surprise him either.

“Maybe a change is as good as a holiday.” Champagne gestures to a small, chrome machine by the wall in question and Din brightens, realising it’s a coffee maker. “Black as usual?”

For one tortuous moment, Din teeters. Every exhausted cell in his being cries out for the promise of dark, enriching caffeine. His one cup from the cafeteria at breakfast had barely scratched the surface. But he needs to get out of here.

“No, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

Champagne’s expression twists with doubt. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

Din bites his tongue. Playing Whiskey isn’t as easy as he hoped. He can only guess at how his brother conducts himself these days. Not as professionally as he should, by the look of things.

“Just eager to get back to work, Sir.”

The coffee machine whirs and buzzes, breaking the uneasy silence and Din steals an anxious glance to the door.

“I’ve reviewed your proposal,” Champagne turns back to him, raising a small bottle of milk he’s pulled from a steel fridge beneath the bar. “I think New York _will_ be good for you. And I need someone I can trust at the helm. Only question is… who will replace you here once you’re gone?”

Din stares at him. 

Jack is moving to New York? But… that’s so far.

Thankfully, Champagne continues. “Now, I know we need to wait for the official application window to close, but… I want to hear your own appraisal. This isn’t an impartial process. This agency has survived by the integrity of its character. I need to know I can trust the man who’ll represent this office and its interests, uphold our values, and protect our own. If there’s someone you know who can do that in the Statesman manner, I need his name.”

Din’s mind spins. Application. They’re looking for Jack’s replacement.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I’ll need to think on that.”

Champagne hums in disappointment. “Don’t think too long.” He gestures with his coffee cup, reclining against the bar. “There’s been some developments, and I’ll need--”

A boom of sound rattles the windows, cutting him off short.

Din immediately falls into a ready stance, reaching instinctively for the holster on his hip. He stares at his empty hand, mind blank with confusion until he remembers he’s wearing Jack’s clothes but none of his weapons.

They both look out the window where a thick, black plume of smoke is rising into the early morning sky. It looks close. Maybe a block away.

The doors to Champagne’s office fly open and the petite brunette from before stands on the threshold, eyes wide. “Sir!” She looks to Champagne, expression startling when she sees the smoke beyond the glass.

Champagne points out the window. “Lucy. Find out what that was.”

“On it, Sir.” The woman, Lucy, looks to Din. “Also, someone’s been…” She cringes awkwardly. “Spending….”

“Lucy!” Champagne barks, casting her a sharp look. “Priorities.”

She straightens like a shot. “Yes, Sir!”

Champagne looks to Din. “Whiskey, take a team. That’s too close to my grounds for comfort.”

Din nods, grateful for the excuse to take his leave. But even as he follows Lucy from the office, the dark spectre beyond the window stirs uneasy in his chest.

///

It’s a beautiful morning to be on the road again. 

Casting a look over his shoulder to the shrinking spectre of Statesman’s water tower in the distance, Paz squints against the rising sun and sighs, duffel swinging down to his side.

Out alone on the road… again. Sooner than he planned, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He pounds a fist on his truck’s door. “Missy!”

Unlocked, he tosses his bag up on Din’s-- no, the passenger seat. His large, ginger traveling companion emerges from the shadows of the cab, her tall ears twitching hesitantly, golden eyes searching. Ms Kitty greets him with an inquisitive chirrup, straightening with confidence once she finds him alone.

Standing in the raised footwell, a knee leaned against the seat, Paz beckons her with a nod. “Go on. Stretch your legs. Last chance before we hit the road again.”

She leaps onto the seat with a grace he’ll never understand despite her size. On her hind legs, she’s tall enough to reach his shoulders. Gone are the days when she could drape across them like a lazy, majestic wrap of fur. She’s too big for that now. Too thick, too heavy; a purring tonne of fluff. 

And to think that she’d started small enough to curl in his palm. That he didn’t want her. Hadn’t thought he’d need anyone or anything again.

Didn’t hurt to be wrong once in a while.

“Hey, big girl,” he smiles when she nuzzles into his belly then pulls back to look up into his face, shoulders pulling back, gaze calculating.

He’s ready when she leaps up, catching her massive paws against his chest and resting them on his shoulders. He buries his quiet laugh in her neck, a spring of warmth welling in his chest at her affectionate headbutt, her purr rumbling through him with the rub of her whiskers against his beard.

“Lonely by yourself? Did you miss me?” He rubs her back playfully, fingers sinking deep into her mane of fur. 

She chirps like an indignant child left bored to its own devices. He already knew the answer, of course. 

She returns to all fours on the seat, tail curling as she sniffs the air curiously and searches the open vantage of the passenger door.

“No, just me,” Paz sighs, stepping down to let her pass. “You and me again. You okay with that?”

She sniffs the tall wheels and disappears beneath the under-carriage without sparing him a glance. Heartless.

Paz watches her go and wonders aloud, “You like my music, right?”

He doesn’t expect a response, but still leans down to check and catches a glimpse of her thick tail before it dashes out of sight. She’s found some new game to pursue.

“Don’t terrorise the locals,” he calls after her. “We roll out in five.”

He’s descending the step again with her litter tray in hand when he notices the four new strangers across the road. There’s nothing uniform in their clothes except the way they’re dressed: comfortably, non-descript, inexpensive and fit to travel. One of them is wearing hiking boots. Another even came with a stab-proof vest. 

Paz tries not to make a habit of stabbing people before lunch.

Their weapons are less subtle: sawn-off shotguns, pistols in thigh holsters and utility belts surely holding all kinds of surprises. 

This morning is looking up.

Straightening up tall, he gestures with the litter tray. “Morning.”

They watch him with varying degrees of distaste, boredom and apprehension. The one out front scowls at him and motions with the butt of the shotgun resting on his shoulder. This must be their leader.

“Where’s the kid?”

Paz’s mouth pulls in a shrug and he looks around to the empty street: concrete walls ahead of him; the reserve of pine behind him and the truck. “Where’s your manners?”

“Good morning,” the man smiles wide and ingenuine. He cocks his rifle and takes aim, grip tight against his shoulder. “Where’s the kid?”

Paz doesn’t bother raising his hands. “Four on one, huh?” Tutting under his breath, he motions to the litter tray. “I’m just going to empty this--”

His ears ring with the warning shot. He stares at the new hole smoking in the side of the truck’s hood. He points to the damage with his free hand and looks at them, incredulous. 

“Did you just shoot my truck?”

“It’s four on one, man,” the one wearing the vest says; a woman, he realises. Not that it will matter. “We can keep making holes or you can give us the kid.”

“Or the other hunter,” Sawn-Off says. “Bounty was for the asset, but there’s another sum for the hunter who stole him. You hiding them in that truck?” His sneer is snide and crooked. “You wanna see how many holes I can make before I find them?”

Paz smiles. Scanning the four of them head to toe, he makes his assessment within the length of an exhale. Four on one.

“You should have brought more men.”

For all their firepower, they still scream and lunge from the path of the litter tray thrown at their heads. Some things are universal. By the time they recover, Paz has closed the distance and Sawn-Off balks in wide-eyed confusion at the large wrench coming down. A wild shot goes off. He crumbles with a sickening crunch of bone, wrench buried in his face.

The woman’s scream fills the air as Sawn-Off crumbles with a wet gurgle of agony. 

Wrench dropped, Paz flips the shotgun and cocks it with the swift reflex of decades’ muscle memory. He aims down at the three staring at him in horror, their clothes and hair covered in kitty litter.

“Go home,” he warns.

If they were smart, they would turn and run. But greed makes people tunnel vision. Scared and greedy? Makes idiots of everyone. 

He shoots the first one in the shoulder before they’ve finished pulling their pistol from its holster-- it’s too large for them, the kick-back would have knocked them in the head. He suspects they’ve never fired it before. Falling on their backside, they stay down, keening in pain.

The man with the utility belt hurls something Paz automatically bats away, swinging the shotgun like a club. It dinks into the truck behind him, innocent and metallic. In the split second he’s turned, fire lances up his forearm and he snarls, kicking out instinctively. The woman in the vest goes flying from the force, her large knife thrown from her grip. 

Utility Belt is the last man standing. He gapes at the cut sleeve of Paz’s jacket, the blood flowing freely down the skin, and the large, black tattoo now bared on his inner forearm.

He looks up into Paz’s face with a blend of awe and shock. “Mando--”

The explosion at their backs throws them both off their feet, and in the perfect clarity of that earth-shattering moment, Paz reflects: he’s really out of practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Litter tray versus shotgun: which would win? The answer may shock you...."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Twenty years, Jack. Even with your resources here, we’ve been looking for them for twenty years and we finally have a lead.”
> 
> “Din, I stopped looking.”

"Be wary," Jack’s stern voice fills Ginger’s lab. "First boots on the scene reported seeing puma. Other threats may remain."

Ginger and Din exchange a confused glance before her wall of monitors. Din’s hands fist and loosen at his sides. His chest is tight with tension. It’s cold in here without a jacket. There wasn’t time to get another when his brother pulled him aside in the halls and took it.

_“What’s going on?” Din had asked as Jack shrugged the deep blue, bulletproof layer on above Din’s borrowed clothes._

_“Get to Ginger.”_

_“What’s happened?”_

_Jack took his hat from Din’s brow and squeezed his shoulder, voice firm. “Go to her and stay with her. I gotta go to work now.”_

The woman in question is a flurry of activity, hands flying at her keyboard and coordinating urgently with agents that spill across her monitors to investigate the explosion on Statesman’s boundary.

"Puma?" she murmurs with absent confusion.

At her side, the child sits patiently in a spare office chair, small hands balled on his thighs. When Din glances at him, the child is watching _him_ , not the monitors. His small brow is pinched with thoughtful curiousity.

A thought occurs to Din and the mental noise clears. He leans forward, activating the mic broadcasting on Jack’s private channel. "Jack. What _exactly_ did they say?"

"What?” Jack only sounds mildly annoyed to hear him over the comms. “What do you mean what did they say -- they said a mountain lion!"

"Describe it."

Huffing impatiently, the camera shakes with Jack’s rough turn of the jeep down the street. Black smoke billows on the horizon. “Marcos, confirm your sighting.”

Over Ginger’s speakers, a new voice: “It looked like a small lion, Sir. Shaggy and pale. Yellow. It was circling the wreckage. Big tail."

Ginger looks at Din, even more confused. “Pumas aren’t shaggy.”

Din curses under his breath. "Jack, that's not a lion, it's a Maine Coon. That's Paz's cat. Do _not_ shoot her. If she's circling, she's... he was...."

He feels the blood drain from his face and the ground seems to tilt under his feet. A high pitch whine rings in his ears. 

Ginger stops, glancing at him, eyes worried.

Jack's awed whistle draws their attention back to the spectre on the monitor. "That's one hell of a bonfire."

On screen, the remains of a long, tall vehicle burn by the roadside, furious gouts of orange and strange green flame billowing forth thick, black smoke.

"Is that his truck?" Din asks, hoarsely.

"Sir!" The shout comes from off-screen. "We've got injured."

Ginger leaps into action before Jack's order even comes through, hands flying at her keyboard and hailing the team leaders on her headset.

"Ginger, we have live casualties. Possible hostiles. Hail medical and our people will finish setting up a perimeter. If the brigade's on their way, don't redirect them. But we'll handle the rest."

“Beta Infirmary, prepare for multiple patients. Externals,” Ginger says, practiced and calm. “Patching you through to medics on the scene.”

Din leans on the mic again. "Jack. Do you see him? Is Paz there?"

At first, Jack doesn't respond. He either doesn’t hear or he's ignoring his brother, tone clipped as he dispenses orders for the scene’s containment. The picture coming in from multiple cameras is obscured with smoke and many agents are backing up with sleeves held to their faces.

The monitor lights up with Jack’s active mic. His voice is lowered with caution, "Yeah. Yeah I think so."

///

The truck’s blaze sears through the early morning chill.

Jack’s eyes water from the smoke, but he can still make out the bodies by the side of the road. He counts at least three. None are moving. He won’t let the medics move in until others can assure him the source of that blaze won’t explode again, and the fire won’t spread.

In his ear, Ginger fires off orders corralling resources to the site and cutting off word of the event from spreading. On the ground, Jack coordinates their agents to surround the perimeter and search for any further threat or danger.

Din does not come in over the comms again. Jack wonders if he’s watching or if the idiot is on his way under some fool-headed notion he can help. It better be the former.

The fire brigade make record time: a consolation of their estate being less than twenty minutes from city limits.

“You handle the fire, we’ll help you secure the scene. We can give the injured medical care in our grounds,” Jack tells their captain, though he knows Ginger already briefed the woman.

And once Statesman has interviewed the ones strewn around the street, they’ll be released to the public hospital or local authorities. Are they victims or the arsonists themselves? He would like to know. Champagne will _demand_ to know.

Jack watches the high-powered water jets suffuse the fire and feels his shoulders relax once the misty run-off thickens the air. The moment the captain in high-vis gives him the all clear, Jack and the teams are moving.

Five bodies in total. Some of them have begun to stir. 

He sees the alleged ‘lion’ prowling around one in particular. Taller and broader in the shoulder than the others, face down against the curb. Through the black haze the brigade are battling, he sees the darkened, exposed flesh of their back.

“That’s her,” Din’s voice says in his ear. “Her name’s ‘Ms Kitty’. She’ll respond to ‘Missy’, too.”

Very imaginative, Paz.

No lion at all, but nobody would mistake this one for a kitten. The cat is as tall as Jack’s thigh and when her tail lashes, sharp and agitated, she looks twice as big. Her fur is streaked with soot. She hisses viciously at the medics when they approach, front lowered, teeth bared. Her paws are large. Jack doesn’t want to learn damage they’re capable of inflicting.

“Hey, do you want us to help him or not?” he growls. 

Maybe it’s the annoyance in his voice, but when she looks at him, something loosens in the hostile arch of her back. The warning noise she makes is loud enough to be heard despite the heavy cascade of water at their backs and sets his spine on edge.

Behind him, the medical team are already lifting the other casualties onto gurneys. Wheels rattle as they’re rolled away.

“Come on, girl. We’re here to help.”

Lowering his stance, Jack advances a cautious step, hands outstretched. Ms Kitty watches him, slitted eyes alert. She retreats a light step, then another, in tandem with Jack’s approach until he’s kneeling by Paz’s shoulder and searching the man’s wrist for a pulse.

He releases a breath of relief and beckons the medical team forward. “He’s alive.”

///

"Bring him here," Ginger says, moving to one of the examination beds.

For a moment, she stalls, glancing between Din and his brother on the monitor behind him: the stern, blue peacock of her partner and his dour, muted reflection. Not that she would ever call Jack a peacock to his face.

"Now?" Din frowns, hesitating.

At his ankle, the kid tugs on his pant leg with a plaintive burble, head craned back to look at him. He murmurs insistently, seeming to be worried by the commotion. His small sneakers climb atop Din’s hiking boot, hands fisted in his pant, and Din startles, almost tripping over himself.

Ginger flicks on the bed’s monitor and begins configuring one of the handheld scanners. "This place is going to get a whole lot busier for the next 48 hours. This might be our only chance. We need to be quick. Let's do what we came to."

Bending down to scoop up the whimpering child, Din rounds the bed and gently deposits him between them. The little one’s eyes grow large when Ginger pulls out her stethoscope. Clinging to Din’s hands, he clambers back to his feet. He’s restrained by a gentle hand on his shoulder and he falls back onto his bottom, but whines, twisting under Din’s grip to turn his back on Ginger and strain towards safety. Towards Din.

Ginger watches, stethoscope in hand. “I don’t think he’s had good experiences with doctors.”

Din releases a tight sigh, easing him back with hands on small shoulders. “Probably not.”

“Do you know anything about his medical history?”

“No.” Din frowns when the kid releases a particularly insistent whine. “Stay.” He raises a hand loosely balled, thumb and pinky horizontally extended. “Stay.”

The kid just clutches that hand and tries to drag himself closer, eyes wet.

“You can hold him,” Ginger offers.

“No, he’s okay,” Din states as though he can will it to be so. He lays a comforting hand on the child’s back, stroking his small shoulders. “Do what you need to.”

“Okay, well.” She hesitates. “I need some basic vitals.”

Neither of them have Paz’s touch, but between the two of them they coax the child away from his intentions of rolling off the bed or hiding his face in Din’s shirt.

Ginger collects the kid’s height, weight, and blood pressure. The height is only an approximation after they fail to encourage the child to lie straight or long enough for an accurate reading. When Ginger presses the stethoscope to his little chest, the child all but folds around her hand and lays his head on her wrist. Ginger’s heart aches at the soulful dark eyes that gaze up at her, imploring. But with his head bowed, she notices something new.

Her fingers sink in his hair, parting it down to his scalp.

She frowns and shows Din the patch of pure white hair. "Have you noticed this before?"

Din stares, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "What does it mean?"

"Look." She shows the baby's scalp where the skin has lightened in scattered blotches. "I'm not an expert, but I think your baby has vitiligo. It can occur in victims of trauma."

Din meets her gaze and falls very still.

"It could spread. He can also recover," she reassures him.

"... He's ten months old," Din's voice is hoarse with disbelief.

What has this kid seen?

“Almost done, sweetheart,” she promises, gently squeezing his small foot. Ginger looks to Din. "Ten months?"

He nods.

"Do you know if he was born premature?" She asks. 

The child is so small she could probably lift him one-handed. By contrast, his ears are huge. He watches her quietly with a soft pout. 

She's seen the kid walk and she’s fairly sure it's not dwarfism from his gait. If he wasn't born early, could it be he was under-nourished? Or that he's simply that small? Without any information about his parents, it would be irresponsible to guess.

Din shakes his head either in the negative or to disavow knowledge he doesn’t have. "Does it affect the tracker’s removal?"

“The technique’s more of a short-circuit than a removal.” Ginger turns the monitor on its swivel arm to show him the kid’s vitals and rising blood pressure. “He’s small, but I’m confident I can calibrate the shock within safe parameters for one of his size and weight.”

Din’s brow narrows in concern. “The shock?”

Ginger slides the top steel and duraplex compartment of the bed down with a heavy click. “The fastest method is a brief but focused pulse strong enough to short the tracker’s circuits. With time, it should eventually be broken down, passed or absorbed into his system.”

The bed cracks with a zap of electricity and Ginger jumps at the sudden burst of sparks. The kid squeals and Din snatches him up and away.

Ginger gapes at the remains of the compartment, glass dulled and metal smoking. The lab fills with the scent of burnt plastic and the fans overhead whir on, detecting the pollutant.

What just happened?

She glances from the bed to the power cables tied safely beneath it. Could this be related to the explosions aboveground?

Din rocks the trembling child who’s hidden his face in Din’s collar. Cheek pressed to his hair and a hand closed behind his neck, Din comforts him, low and gentle in his ear. He meets Ginger’s eye above the broken examination bed.

"Is he okay?" Ginger blinks, still stunned. “I-I’m sorry. I have no idea what happened. It must have-- and this-- this was our best, surest bet for-- deactivating--”

Din rushes on, expression tight. “Do you have another one?”

“Not one I can calibrate for him.”

His mouth twists with the threat of a curse. He glances from the bed to the monitors on the wall. He looks back to Ginger. “Is there another way?”

Ginger grasps blindly for the first idea that comes top of mind. “Maybe by isolating the frequency, I could try to overload it remotely? Or remotely override and deactivate it? But that would take time.”

Din’s expression tightens and he clutches the child a little closer. “Please.”

“It’s time I don’t have, Din.” Her heart sinks with regret. “Not right now.” She glances to the raging inferno on the monitors and Din nods with understanding. “But later? I will try my best.”

Din's voice is rough. “Thank you. For trying. And I’m sorry about the--” He glances at the still smoking bed.

She waves him off. “Oh. That’s not your fault.”

Din just rubs the kid’s back in reassurance, mouth thinned. His look of guilt is misplaced.

“Come on,” Ginger resolves, grabbing her datapad instead. “Let’s go meet them in the infirmary.”

///

Paz Vizsla is no stranger to injury.

When he was eight-years-old, he broke his arm chasing his sister down a hill. At twelve, he cracked his nose and had his arm twisted out of its socket. A small price to pay for defending his father’s honour. But he was warned his shoulder would forever be vulnerable to re-dislocation, so he trained hard to keep everything strong and connected.

By the time he hit seventeen, he was taller and broader than his father had ever been. He would have towered over any of his late family, his aunt told him. He loomed over her, too, but his esteem of her always made her seem taller in his eyes.

As the years passed, there were more encounters and his trophies scarred their memories into his skin. 

“It’s time we made you better protection,” his aunt said, and melted down his parents’ armour.

Six years ago, he took three bullets to the gut and an even deeper, invisible wound to the heart. He is sure nothing will ever hurt that keenly again.

But he wakes in Statesman’s infirmary face down on a gurney, his entire being a white hot throb of agony, and he has to re-assess: burns are a whole other ball game.

In the disorientation of the moment, he struggles to rise and understand what’s happening.

His limbs don’t respond and he can barely lift his head. His back is a lightning storm with forked licks of pain flaring with every aborted attempt to move. Sound pricks through the tinny whine of his hearing.

Voices.

The urgent trill of a heart rate monitor. He’d recognise that sound anywhere.

_That sound._

“Sir, you need to stay still, stay calm, you’re going to be fine,” a stern, unfamiliar voice is saying, but what he hears through the fog is, “Sir… stay….”

He groans, fighting the sluggishness surging through his body. A sedative? He didn’t feel the prick of… he sees the needle taped to the back of his hand by his face, and reaches up to tear it out.

A quicker hand stops him, catching his wrist.

“Stop, stop. Let them help you. You’re safe.”

He doesn’t understand the words, but he can process the notes: firm and steady, familiar in its low tone. This voice soothes the fight from his shoulders.

 _Safe,_ the small insistence comes to him without form, a cool, soothing wave cresting the tide of his consciousness. _Trust._

He slumps back to the pillow with a groan, and the darkness surges up to hold him.

///

The next time Paz comes to, he can discern the world around him in more than smears of sound and light. It helps him breathe a little easier. The smell of bleach and the murmur of activity beyond his heart rate monitor tell him he’s in some sort of infirmary or hospital.

He’s still on the gurney. They still have him laying on his stomach, his back bare and exposed to the cool air.

The morning’s events come rushing back in like a lancet of pain between his eyes.

He groans in discomfort and his head thunks back to the pillow.

The arm that was slashed is mostly covered in bandages and medical grade tape, both of which are becoming noticeably itchy. His back feels strange. Stiff. Numb. When he shifts experimentally, an echo of that earlier pain sparks through his body when the muscle shifts in protest. It feels raw. Just how badly was he caught by the blast?

Paz knows the pain would be much worse if he wasn’t doped up on painkillers. And while some part of him is grateful, he doesn’t like the sluggish, and borderline lethargic state they leave him in. Everything feels tight, like he’s stuck in a too-small-suit.

He doesn’t have a very good vantage point, but he still senses when someone approaches him. Or maybe he just hears their footsteps rush over.

Even with the current foggy state of his thoughts, he registers the motion as a possible danger.

“Ghhnh—“ The noise escapes before he can form an actual word, and he tries to move again.

“Hey. Stay there.” A voice filters through the fog still settled in his brain. “Hey.”

Din.

Paz groans to himself even as his shoulders loosen in relief. “Ugh. Damn.” Even relaxing hurts. 

That was the shortest goodbye of his life. When he said goodbye to Din and the kid that morning he thought he would never see them again. 

Din’s presence nears the bed and a shadow falls across his left shoulder. His voice is lowered carefully as though to avoid being overheard. “Don't move. Your truck was blown up. The blast threw you.”

Cold dread seizes Paz’s heart. “Did… w-was….” Words are slow to form and even more difficult to string together. He tries again, wincing through the pained effort of focusing. “Was there anything left?”

“I’m sorry,” Din says softly.

Paz’s heart drops through the floor and he shudders.

_Everything. His last momentos of them. Gone._

_No. Nonono NO--_

“Doctors said if you hadn't been wearing what you were, it would have been worse. The burns are second degree. You have a concussion. They think… some whiplash.”

Second degree burns, huh. That explains why they have him on his stomach, why everything feels so tight and awful. He’s morbidly curious what it looks like.

Paz looks at his forearm with his signet, heart dropping at the sight of the warped skin beneath the clear dressing. He sighs, leaning his forehead to the pillow with a quiet curse. “Where are we?”

“Statesman.”

Huh. A distillery with advanced medical tech _and_ an infirmary, that was normal.

“Where's Missy?” he asks instead, because that’s what he really cares about.

“She's fine. Not even singed. I’ll try to bring her around later.”

Paz feels the warmth in his chest bloom through some of the pain and sends up a silent word of gratitude. ‘Course she was fine, his girl. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost her, too.

“Jus’ keep her safe.”

Beside him, Din gently presses, “Once they realise you’re awake, they’ll want to talk to you. What happened?”

“Hunters. One of them had grenades.” There’s a pause and Paz doesn’t know what Din is doing, so he asks, “The kid?”

“He's safe.”

Paz sighs in relief. So, they’re all safe. Wincing, he tries shifting onto his side. Din’s hand settles gingerly on the transparent bandage of his slashed arm, then retreats as though realising the flesh beneath his hand was still healing. Paz gives up with a huff and slumps back down to his pillow. “We were supposed to have a bigger lead.”

“Yeah,” is all Din says, low and regretful, so Paz breaks the silence with some dry humor. He’s getting pretty good at it now.

“You know...” He turns his head on the pillow to see him. Din is wearing a face mask and white lab coat, warily scanning the infirmary. He looks down in the pause. Paz warms at the concern in those deep, brown eyes. “When I said I wanted to try barbecuing, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

Din’s brow pinches in confusion. Then his shoulders drop with an incredulous puff of air, and he shakes his head. His eyes crinkle, smiling.

That warmth in Paz’s chest spreads a little further.

Din looks up sharply at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“Hey.” It’s Ginger, her voice hushed. “I need to show you something.”

The hand on Paz’s shoulder leaves him with the slightest squeeze of reassurance. He just grunts in acknowledgment, head drowsy again. 

About time for another nap, he thinks.

///

Ginger beckons Din with a nod to one of the infirmary’s private consult rooms, swiping to enter. These rooms are unmonitored. There is no mic nor camera to capture the kid and Ms Kitty curled on a borrowed blanket in the corner. He coos into her fur while she blinks slowly and tolerates the limpet tucking himself against her side with his arms around her neck.

It eases some of the tension in Din’s chest to see those two reunited.

Jack is already there, pensive eyes on the kid, expression troubled. He stands from the table to take the white datapad Ginger offers.

“What’s this?” Din asks.

“The report came back on our five guests in the infirmary. Four of them are registered with the Eastern Guild of Bounty Hunters, no priors,” Ginger looks at him. “Colleagues of yours?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t recognise the other four patients who came in with Paz and doubts he would even if they hadn’t been thrown by a huge fireball. “It’s a big guild.” And he never took much notice of his competitors. Focusing on the job was enough to provide its own results.

“Well, one of them passed from his injuries. We’ll need to report his cause of death. The Guild could come asking questions.”

Din leans his hands on his hips, considering it. “It’s not the guild I’m worried about. But jobs don’t usually get this violent. People tend to give up the moment they’re found.”

Jack looks up from the datapad, mouth pursed in a frown. “Jobs often involve kids? Or hunters hunting their own?”

“No. Mostly bail jumpers.”

Ginger shifts nervously and taps something on the datapad’s top corner. “I, uh-- also got a hit on your friend, Din.”

Heart leaping, Din looks back to the datapad over Jack’s shoulder and reads the new file that unfolds. His eyes grow wide as Jack reads aloud.

“Wanted in three states for multiple counts of aggravated assault, arson and destruction of property?” His tone is questioning, incredulous, but there’s no ambiguity in the attached police reports quickly brought up. 

“Huh.” That does make sense. When Jack looks at him, Din shrugs, cocking his head. “He did save us with a flamethrower.”

Jack squints at him. Is it so unbelievable?

“And a grenade launcher,” Din mumbles, and-- okay-- saying it aloud, he understands how it could sound extreme to some people. “I think he blew up half the Waffle House parking lot covering our exit.”

Jack and Ginger stare at him with mixed expressions of shock and disbelief.

Finally, Jack finds his voice. “Jesus _Christ_ , Din! And you thought it was safe trusting him with a _kid?”_

“No,” Din shakes his head. “I never leave them alone.”

He does not admit that the way Paz treats them is a refreshing and startling contrast to that violence. Din knows violence. He knows how to mitigate and dispense it himself. And it’s welcome not being the target of it, for once. Having someone else to share the load. Someone who’ll protect them.

Ginger’s careful interjection ploughs between the brothers. “He’s also been named a person of interest in connection with the domestic terrorist organisation ‘Death Watch’.”

Din and Jack look at her sharply. 

Every fibre in Din’s body tenses, heart suddenly racing. All the air seems to have left the room. Or maybe he just forgets to breathe, throat clamped shut. “What did you say?”

Glancing between them, wary at their unexpected reaction, Ginger clarifies, "Death--"

“ _Death Watch_ ,” Jack glances to his brother with a significant look of warning, “Is defunct.”

“I’m just reporting what the intelligence collected," Ginger says. "It’s worth noting these records date back to Imperial timeframes. It may not all be true.”

Jack continues reading off the datapad. “His father was Pre Vizsla. The martyr.” His voice takes on a faraway quality, flat and resigned. “That’s why his name was familiar.”

Din presses Ginger. “Are you sure?”

“Ginger,” Jack lowers the datapad, voice carefully controlled. “Could you give my brother and I a moment, please? And thank you for your discretion.”

Ginger is too slow to mask her uncertainty, but she nods in deferral. “I’ll check with the team for any updates on our patients.” She glances at the child and the feline napping in the corner. “Grab some food for those two.”

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, Jack meets his brother’s eye sternly. “I know what you’re going to say.” One hand leaned on his hip, he raises the other in warning. “This ain’t it.”

Din blows out an incredulous breath. “Are you kidding me?” He shakes his head and points out to the infirmary and their unknowing subject, oblivious and unconscious of their debate. “Twenty years, Jack. Even with your resources here, we’ve been looking for them for twenty years and we _finally_ have a lead.”

“Din, I stopped looking.”

Din stares at his brother, stunned.

“Death Watch was _a death cult,”_ Jack growls, eyes alight. “They crumbled from their own in-fighting and wiped each other out. Everybody knows that.”

“You stopped -- _death cult?_ I know we went to the academy, but you actually _bought into_ that crap?”

“It’s not just the Empire! We were kids, Din. Stupid kids and they indoctrinated us.” His voice falls to an angry, shameful hiss. “Death Watch found us and we were just grateful to be alive. Doesn’t mean we keep our blinders on to everything else they did. You’re a grown ass man already, you should have given up on them a long time ago!”

“If you believed all that, why are you still wearing it?” Din snaps, shoving a palm at his brother’s chest. He feels the tell-tale impression of the precious steel amulet below his shirt. The one against his own skin burns. “Why did you never change _your dream_ of flying? We went into the Imperial Air Force because of _you_. Death Watch trained you in the rising phoenix--”

“Then they _fucking died_ because they were cocky, war-mongering fools!” Jack shouts back, batting Din’s hand away. “Let the enemy right onto their door, and we were on our own again, so what was the point? They’re gone. Good riddance. We survived without them.”

Din stares at his brother, heart hammering. After all these years, something about Jack’s unrelenting ire at their former guardians finally falls into place. “You’re not angry because of what people say about them. Are you? You’re mad because… they died?”

“Weak,” Jack spits the word. “If they lived, they would have found us. She swore it.” Jack fumes with the visible rise and fall of his breath, both hands braced on his hips now. “We were better off without them.”

Din’s heart pangs in sympathy. At least, this insistence is familiar. “Jack….” He sighs, glancing back to the door where Paz lies beyond in the ward. “If he really is Pre’s son… if he knows what happened to them--”

“And, so what if he is? Or he does know?” Jack challenges. “It doesn’t change anything.” His expression darkens and he brandishes the datapad accusingly. “That guy is leaving a trail of wreckage across the country and I don’t want you anywhere near him. And you shouldn’t want the kid near him, either.”

On one hand, Jack is right. Twenty years have passed and even if Din could gain his answers to what happened to the people who became their second home… the conclusion still remains. This is who they are now. Jack still disavowed any trace of who he used to be and Din still became… this.

And beneath it all, the ache of not knowing will still remain.

Closure. That’s what knowing would provide him. 

But he holds his tongue and breaks the hold of his brother’s glare. He knows he won’t sway Jack on this. 

“Once he’s stabilised, I’m turning him over to the authorities with the others,” Jack declares.

Din looks at him, alarmed.

Jack stays firm. “He’s a wanted man.”

“Who helped us!”

“And brought a firebomb to my door. You know, maybe he is Death Watch: that’s what they do. Well, I ain’t letting those people destroy _this_ life, too. I’m responsible for these people and this estate.” Jack’s eyes narrow, searching him sternly. “You understand?”

Din’s heart sinks. He looks to the kid dozing on Ms Kitty’s shoulder. He understands perfectly.

Quietly, he ventures, “Even though you’re going to New York?”

Jack blinks in surprise, but quickly collects himself with the change of topic. “Champagne told you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it’s not confirmed yet but... Laura’s gone. Why would I stay here?”

Jack’s wife had died. Jack’s brother left him. Din just nods, he doesn’t know what to say. New York was just so far away. 

“Do what’s best for you,” he murmurs.

///

Paz was always a fast healer. 

He’s still surprised when Din nudges him awake in the dead of night what seems like mere hours later, with two duffel bags under one arm, and the kid in the other.

The look in his eyes makes Paz’s stomach sink with dread and stagger to his feet obediently.

Din helps him untangle and unhook himself from all the medical equipment, politely not commenting on the pained expressions he fails to mask as his wounds protest the early departure. 

Head cocked, Din’s brow furrows in concern as Paz drags his feet in their escape. 

“A wheelchair would be easier.”

“Would you have used one?” Paz fires back, almost a stage whisper. If he’s honest, even standing is an effort. Maybe he should reconsider the wheelchair. His sense of humor dried up after he used all his energy sliding into the new clothes Din salvaged. He’s still incredibly sore and uncomfortable, but too much medication made him feel foggy and vulnerable.

Din hesitates a moment before he concedes, “Probably not.” 

“That’s what I thought.” Paz tries to reach down for Missy and immediately grimaces. She presses against his thigh in encouragement, mewling softly, face tilted up at him, tail flicking. Sinking a few inches, Paz has to quickly straighten again, with a grunt in obvious frustration. 

“Ginger said no bending and no lifting.” Din reminds him, even though they both know Paz should be taking things easy. 

“I know. I want to go back—“

Paz cuts himself off, once again remembering his truck was toast. Quite literally. Even beyond the damage from the explosion, Din told him the fire had burnt or melted any remnant until only a charred metal frame was left.

It hurt, oddly enough, just as much as his burns. 

“Come on, Missy.” He looks down at the cat following right at his heels. Paz relents with a huff, and obediently hobbles after Din and the kid. They’d move faster if Paz would stop stalling and asking questions. 

_Where are we going? What’s going on? Does your brother know about this?_

“Just go.” Din looks too distracted to answer him and urges Paz to keep up, expression stern.

Din leads them through back corridors and side entrances, all unfamiliar from the few halls he’d seen before. They arrive at an open air car lot towards the back of the estate and to what Paz assumes is their new vehicle.

It’s more spacious than his truck’s cabin, and Paz has a sinking feeling they are going to need that space.

They pile in, Din and the kid followed by Paz and Missy, who immediately attempts to scout the new surroundings. Paz almost weeps with relief when he sinks into the seat, trembling with exhaustion. He wipes the sweat from his brow as Din yanks something out from beneath the steering wheel and hands it to Paz to hold.

“GPS tracker,” Din explains, starting the car. “So they won’t find us.”

“You gonna tell me what all this is about?” Paz is getting a little annoyed now because, sure, he didn’t like staying on unfamiliar grounds, but at least in Statesman’s infirmary bed he wasn’t about to be sick with pain.

He’s met with silence as Din quietly pulls them to the gate and swipes them through with an undoubtedly stolen pass card. 

The kid has been awfully quiet, apparently picking up on the tension between his two guardians. Paz looks down at the kid in his arms. Large, dark eyes blink back at him in the moonlight with a curious coo, playing with the broken GPS tracker.

In the back seat, Missy stretches out and seems to fall asleep.

They’ve been on the road for nearly half an hour when Din’s grip on the steering wheel finally loosens from white-knuckle to normal. It’s been an uneasy, near painful silence between them since they got on the road. Paz had only his thoughts, his cat, and the itching bandages under his clothes for company. The kid fell asleep a while ago, lulled by the low rumble of the engine and the smooth road. Paz’s back is aching, his arm throbs, but the kid is a reassuring distraction against his stomach.

“When were you going to tell me?” Din chooses his words in a slow and deliberate manner, as though he’s giving Paz a chance to come clean.

The sinking feeling grips Paz again, and something in the gravity of the air tells him what Din is referring to. As if the glance to Paz’s bandaged arm wasn’t damning enough. Even through the cut and burn, the tattoo is still discernible.

His greatest pride and shame.

“Tell you wh--” Paz starts, but is immediately cut off. 

“Death Watch.” Din’s jaw tightens, exhaling a long breath, and won’t meet his eyes.

Silence rings in the car. Paz stares at Din’s profile and then ahead to the open road. 

The lamp-posts streak by, throwing their shadows across the dashboard as the half-moon lazes ever higher into the sky.

Finally, voice steady, Paz says, “What is it you want to know?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paz looks over and watches his grip loosen and tighten on the steering wheel, working through some internal battle.
> 
> “But if you’ve ever wanted to knock me out, now would be a great time.”

They were fifteen when the Imperials came in the night. 

_“Hide. Take your brother and hide. We’ll find you when it’s safe!”_

Din and Jack were ushered to safety with the other Mandalorian youth, not understanding anything but the urgency in their guardian’s voice.

 _“What have you been training us for?”_ Jack had resisted as the others clambered into the van, gunfire popping in the distance. _“We can fight!”_

_“You can do as you’re told.”_

Even then, Jack struggled to take orders. As the van pulled away with the other youth, Din nervously gripped his rifle and dropped to cover by the tall garbage depots with his brother. His heart raced. Buir would be furious when they found out they weren’t with the others.

The night sky glowed with the light of fires on the boundary and Din tensed at the reverberations of another explosion. The conflict was growing closer. A trine of Mandalorians soared overhead in formation. Somewhere in the dark, beyond the light of the fires, something terrible and massive swooped low, whipping the fires in its passage. Its inorganic scream sent a violent shiver down Din’s spine. Eyes wide, head hunched low between his shoulders, he crouched small to make himself insignificant.

Jack watched the ship pass, unflinching. The growing blaze danced in the reflection of his eyes. At his shoulder, Din had fallen stock-still: he jumped at the next boom, brittle and shaken. In front of him, Jack loaded his twin pair of pistols, but Din’s chest grew tighter with the lack of air and all he could think of was how he’d struggled to breathe in the vice of their father’s arms as they ran for cover from the airstrike all those years ago.

 _“We’re not losing another home,”_ Jack growled.

Meeting his eyes, Din was steeled by his brother’s resolve. _Look after your brother,_ his mother had ordered him. Drawing a deep breath, Din nodded. The rifle tucked against his shoulder and he flexed sensation back into numb fingers. He was ready. They were trained for this.

As it turned out, they were not prepared at all. 

Over twenty years later, Din’s heart still twists at the memory. So many times he has wondered what would have happened if he'd just got into that transport as he was told. Could he have convinced Jack to come with him? Could Din have abandoned his brother if he refused? Who would he be today if they had never been separated from the Mandalorians?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he resists the urge to glance at the man in the seat beside him. Paz has the muscled, towering stature Imperial media had always used when running stories of Mandalorians on nightly broadcasts. Right now, the man looks weak as a kitten, like he’s remaining conscious through sheer will alone. His jaw is clenched against the pain of his injuries. His brow shines with a thick sweat.

Din’s chest is tight with guilt. This is his fault.

He's guessed at their age difference. It can’t be large, but nothing about Paz is familiar with his dark hair and eyes, olive skin, and that physique? He barely resembles his father. What did his mother look like? Din’s memories of the others have faded to the barest impressions over the decades, but…

_Did I know you then?_

The way Paz carries himself… he can speak so disarmingly sincere and with a sort of gravity suggesting he could see farther ahead than Din, so sure of his purpose and intentions. It's unnerving at times. Maybe it’s because he understands where he comes from. It must be nice, having a history.

His heart is pounding.

_If I told you who I was, would you remember me? Did you know us?_

“They ran the prints of everyone involved in the blast,” Din finally says. “They said you’re linked to Death Watch.” He does not mention Paz is also the only one who came back with a criminal record. Not wise to remind someone they’re capable of extreme violence while in confined quarters, even if they’re injured.

“Linked?” Paz grunts under his breath. “They mean: I had parents.”

Din finally steals a glance from the corner of his eye. Paz gazes out over the dashboard to the dark road winding ahead, crooked trees bent over the highway, reaching down with gnarled arms. There are no lights on the lamp posts and the moon’s illumination is meagre, holding the trucker’s face in shadow. The night is close and the air in the car thickens with the sad augur of memories.

“We don’t choose who we’re born to,” Paz mutters. He moves stiff and uncomfortable in his seat, an arm bracing the child against his stomach. 

“Are they still around?” 

“My family?”

“Death Watch.”

Paz frowns, looking at him. “Why are you asking?”

Din’s pounding heart is trying to escape through his throat, deafening all other senses and intuition. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. _Deep breaths. Focus._

In Paz’s hold, the kid squirms with the flail of an arm, mewling unhappily. He’s probably hungry.

“Is Death Watch interested in the kid? His bounty?”

“No,” Paz’s tone is firm and certain. “Death Watch ended with my father. And when they existed, their only motivation was the cultural restoration of Mandalore to its true history.”

Din knows. He and Jack laboured five long years under that tutelage. The intricacies of the internal coup and fall-out are not public record. There are so many things he wants to ask, but too much he can’t explain how he knows.

Paz frowns at the baby, fidgeting with the collar of its blanket, voice low. “We’re not what they say we are.”

Din studies his hands on the wheel. The Imperial headlines were not kind to Mandalore when the Purge made national news, nor in the years that followed, reinforcing every stereotype that Mandalorians were violent, hedonistic supremacists who razed towns with no interest in acclimating to American ways of life. Din couldn’t argue their unique talent for violence: Paz, Jack and himself were living testaments of that. But the other aspects had sowed such widespread mistrust and contempt for the survivors that any trace of Mandalorians in the following years swiftly evaporated into rumour under scrutiny.

Din had searched. Jack was happy to believe they died out, but Din refused to think of it. It made him curl up and wince inside to consider such proud people might have been sheltering like rats in a sewer, but the thought of them alive gave him hope.

The years went by. Din’s searches bore nothing. Jack encouraged him to give up. He joined Statesman. Din forged a name for himself as a bounty hunter. He thought of the Mandalorians less and less as time went on, and the ache of the void faded.

The child smacks a small arm against Paz’s torso. The GPS tracker falls to the footwell with a clatter. A redundant precaution if Ginger thinks to find them with the kid’s tracking signal.

Din sighs.

_What have you got me into, kid?_

_///_

They drive for hours.

Paz drifts in and out, more unconscious than not. Time blurs and bleeds together with the wash of the odd street lamp and the rumble of the sedan. 

Startling awake with a gasp, a blinding flash of red and orange heat sears behind his eyelids, and then the pain hits him. His shoulders and back feel as if they are still aflame, his ears ring, every string of muscle in his body is aching, and the sensory load is nearly too much.

His attempt to double over and ground himself only makes things worse. 

_Breathe. Breathe._

“... az.”

His eyes screw shut and he forces another breath.

“- az!”

The world around him lurches forward sharply and then rumbles to a stop.

He’s panting when the ringing subsides enough to process other sounds.

“Paz!” Din’s voice finally registers.

Paz groans and tilts his head back, going limp against the seat behind him-- and regrets it immediately, arching away from the slightest pressure on his bandages. Fuck. There is no comfortable position.

A plastic bottle rattles with pills. “Take these.” Din puts the painkillers in Paz’s hand, and an open water bottle in the other.

The kid’s worried whimpers reach him from the back seat.

“I’m alright.” Paz’s voice is hoarse and his throat dry. “I’ll be alright,” he modifies his statement, pausing only to take the pills with a swig of water. What he’d give for the luxury of being unconscious right now. 

A stubborn silence has fallen between them. Paz focuses on the car's gentle rumble and realises Din has pulled them over to the side of a steep hill’s pass. Ahead of them, reflective lights line a steel barrier bounding the road’s curve and beyond that is only darkness. If he concentrates hard enough, Paz can manage to breathe in something resembling a normal pattern.

He’s not sure when Din moved the kid to the back seat, but he’s grateful for it. He folds forward with elbows on his knees and braces himself, pained breaths coming deep and ragged. A small, helpless groan escapes his throat as he wills himself to just _breathe through it._

He can feel Din staring and when he speaks, his voice is thick with guilt. “I shouldn’t have pulled you from the infirmary so soon.”

“I’d have snuck out even if you hadn’t,” Paz corrects, with a little more effort than it should take.

Din is quiet but adamant. “Look at you. You’re in no shape to—“

“I’m right where I want to be, Din.”

He doesn’t mean to snap. Din goes quiet. Paz looks over and watches his grip loosen and tighten on the steering wheel, working through some internal battle.

“But if you’ve ever wanted to knock me out, now would be a great time.”

Din doesn’t react; Paz is only half-joking. Staring out over the dashboard, Din’s expression is tight with guilt, and Paz wonders if he feels like he used his brother. He sighs internally. This whole thing is a mess.

“Hey," he says.

They shouldn’t linger here.

“Din,” he tries again.

Din finally looks at him. His eyes soften, searching Paz’s face, his body (whatever he can in this dark), and Paz thinks he must look a mess. He needs a wash, and more importantly, uninterrupted sleep.

“Come on,” he urges, inclining his head to the road.

“Yeah.” Din nods, coming back to himself. “We’re going.” The vehicle is shifted back into gear and Paz tries not to wince with the gentle tug of momentum as they get back on the road, transitioning from dirt to asphalt. 

“What’s the plan? Going where?” Paz mutters as he resumes the fruitless attempt to find a posture that will take the most contact off his back.

“I don’t know.”

The hollowness in Din’s voice makes Paz look at him, concern growing. Din really bailed him out of there without a plan or destination. He can see it now in the tense purse of Din’s mouth. Maybe all his ideas had ended at Statesman. But maybe the hunters will struggle to find them if they don't know where they're going themselves.

“What’s the date?” Paz asks, mind still fuzzed with pain.

Din frowns. “What?”

“Date, the-- what’s tomorrow’s date?”

“Fourteenth. Why?”

Fourteenth. That’s a relief. They still have time.

The depth of Din’s sigh is like a well in itself. “Shit,” the curse comes under his breath. “I forgot you were on a job. Paz. I am so sorry, and-- all your-- everything burned in the fire. They said nothing survived.”

Paz’s heart clenches at the reminder. His eyes squeeze shut and he reaffirms his focus. He can only deal with one source of agony at a time. “I’ll deal with it.”

“You have a number? Someone you can call from your company?”

“Yeah,” Paz murmurs. “I got a number.”

He spares a sideways glance and turns as far as he can—which isn’t much—to look back at the kid. 

Missy is draped across the back seat, her front paws and head propped in the kid’s lap. He can’t see the kid in the dark with his booster seat facing away, but Missy’s tail flicks gently, idle and calm. It loosens some of the tension in his chest.

They have time.

///

They only leave the highway because Paz keeps passing out and his groans of pain make Din increasingly uncomfortable. It was too early for him to be travelling, but once Ginger had assured him Paz was going to be fine, there was no time left to wait. Granted, she probably meant Paz would be fine with time and the right supervision to oversee his recovery. Din is glad he doesn’t have to learn what her temper looks after he stole so many supplies from the infirmary.

The hour is inching past nine the next morning when Din pulls them into a rain-streaked motel with a ‘vacancy’ sign and just hopes they don’t have bed bugs.

“Wait here,” he orders, and Paz gratefully sinks back into his seat. The man is barely keeping his eyes open.

The receptionist is a young man with a silver earring and his boots kicked up on the desk, gaze on a laptop before him. When Din leans in with elbows on the counter, the guy looks up, corner of his mouth tugging up in an approximation of customer service.

“I need two rooms for the night.”

The smile falters a bit and the guy raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a reservation?”

Din bites back his scepticism that people would actually reserve to stay in a place like this where the lights are dim and the carpets smell damp. They just need a place for Paz to lie down properly for a few hours.

“No,” he says.

“Huh, okay, well….” Din takes a moment to scan the place as the kid taps away on his laptop. A few brochures about the local interests line the counter: a water park, a grill house and what looks like a nature reserve. “Sorry, I only got the one room free. How many are you?”

He frowns. “Three, but one’s a kid.”

“Room’s got a queen and a sofa bed.”

Din’s shoulders relax. “I’ll take it.”

“All right, the paperwork for your John Hancock….” A paper form is slapped onto the counter before him and five minutes later, Din is trailing back to the car with an armful of fresh towels and bed linen.

Paz startles awake when Din shuts the car door behind him. Paz blinks blearily, disoriented at the armful of linen Din holds out for him to take.

“We got a room.”

The room is musty but surprisingly clean. Ms Kitty bounds across the threshold first, tail high and whiskers twitching as she explores their new accommodation. A curious chirrup echoes from the bathroom.

The kid blinks up at Din as he’s tucked into the sofa’s corner, tiny hand curled around a soft juice packet. He woke up as they were getting out of the car and Din thinks he made the right choice to feed him before waiting on the kid to start crying for it.

“Stay,” he murmurs, fingers curling in a loose fist but thumb and pinky extended. 

The kid’s expression crinkles with sweet confusion at the hand sign, suckling determinedly on his juice. Din inwardly sighs and goes to turn on the heating before he feels too ridiculous trying to communicate with a baby. 

Paz leans against the front doorframe, expression tight and groggy. He looks like he’s about to keel over. Din gestures him toward the queen bed. 

“Go on. You sleep, I’ll get us some food and--” 

Without a grunt of argument, Paz has stumbled across the room and all but face-planted into the bed covers before Din can finish. Concerned, Din rises from his kneel by the heater and goes to the bed.

“Hey.”

Paz only hums at the gentle tug on his sleeve.

“Take this off. I want to look at your back.”

A tired groan is his only answer. After an expectant silence, Paz huffs under his breath and begins to rise up onto his elbows, hissing with discomfort. 

At Din’s knee, the child appears, tugging the bed cover in a determined attempt to pull himself up. Frowning, Din glances from the child to the sofa where he left him. Why is he so quick?

“Uh-uh, stay there,” He stills the child with a light palm on his forehead, refusing to be swayed by his sulking look. This is not the time for play or cuddling. Paz needs to rest.

Unfortunately, Paz seems to think that comment was for him because he sags back down to the mattress with a poorly suppressed huff that nearly twists into a whine of discomfort. Din’s heart tugs and he bites the inside of his cheek. The least he can do is make Paz comfortable.

“Here, let me help.” Kneeling on the mattress by the man’s thigh, Din curls down the collar of Paz’s jacket. “Arms down. I’m going to pull this off, smooth and quick. Ready?”

Paz draws in a deep, steadying breath, brow pressed to the bed. Din waits, watching him. At last, he is answered with a nod. Din’s hands curl in Paz’s sleeves.

“One, two--”

It’s not as smooth as Din intends and Paz’s chest-deep inarticulate grunt of pain is a blow to his gut. Once the jacket is off, he is very careful to hold in his reaction and not betray his concern at the thick swathes of bandages wrapping Paz’s back and chest like a white, armoured vest.

The man is so lucky he didn’t need surgery.

Going incognito with the facemask and one of Ginger’s borrowed lab coats, Din had been able to get close as the medical team worked over Paz in the infirmary. The wounds were raw, red and weeping in parts, but no blistering, and they were still not the worst set of burns Din had ever seen. Importantly, it wasn’t deep. Din had overheard the doctor estimate it would heal within two to three weeks.

If Paz had been a Statesman agent, they could have healed him within the hour. Din’s seen the medical wonders they’ve achieved behind closed doors, but that technology is patented and importantly off the public record. They can’t have normal civvies walking out of an alcohol distillery miraculously healed by their non-descript medics.

Din’s fingers skim a light trail over the bandages from the hair at Paz’s nape, past those broad shoulders (still tight even at rest), and down, down to his waist. The bandages are still firm and intact. There is no sign of the wounds weeping through, but he didn’t expect to see that with how thickly everything was wrapped.

They’ll have to be smart for a guy of Paz’s size, or they’ll run out of bandages in days. This is not something the trucker will be able to handle on his own. With what Din lifted from the infirmary, Paz won’t be healed by the morning, but it won’t be three weeks, either.

He pauses, senses tingling. 

Din brings the salvaged jacket to his nose. The sterile scent of medical cream and aged fabric draw his eyes closed, complicated memories, but beneath it… where is that other scent coming from?

He looks to Paz sprawled out before him, face turned to the closet, shoulders rising and falling in short, unsteady breaths. Careful and slow, Din leans down, nose hovering at Paz’s nape. He breathes him in.

Diesel. Smoke. And something else familiar… the signature of the fire’s scent lingers in his hair, heady and dizzying. What is that? He knows that sweet, sharp--

Blinking rapidly, Din pulls upright, face burning.

What is he doing?

He studies the man again, Paz’s dark, tousled mess of hair spilling across his face. He’ll probably need Din’s help washing it later. Din’s stomach flips nervously, and he swallows, feeling abruptly ridiculous atop the layer of guilt already tightening his insides. Or maybe that’s just hunger? He brushes the hair back from Paz’s brow to rest the back of one hand against his temple, gauging his temperature, then again on his forehead.

Whether he’s unconscious or too uncomfortable to protest, Paz lets him. His skin is flushed with a healing sweat. He’s hot, but not burning. Din will need to keep an eye on his temperature for the risk of fever.

“Ehhn,” the child complains, puffy hair and dark eyes appearing over the bed’s edge as he tries pulling himself up by the bed covers again. 

Din rolls his eyes, relenting. “All right, come here.”

The kid clutches Din’s sleeve as he’s scooped up and pulled into his lap. Din catches those small hands when the kid tries crawling to Paz.

“Shh, no. We have to let him sleep, all right? He’s gonna be fine.” He rubs the kid’s hands together as though to keep him warm, in truth to keep him distracted. Din knows then Paz is truly asleep because he doesn’t react to the kid’s presence.

The kid whines, body going limp as he collapses in Paz’s direction.

 _Ah_ , realisation dawns. That’s how he protests.

But he’s not indulging the kid today. They need food, medical supplies, and something akin to a plan before they can relax. And he can’t leave the kid alone here under the sole supervision of a giant cat.

The kid manages to grasp Paz’s limp hand and the gold band on his finger glimmers in the early morning light. Din pries the child’s small grip free and resolutely does not think of whoever waits for Paz, or how Din could possibly justify what he’s endured for them.

“Come on,” he gathers the child to his chest and rises. “Let’s get some food."

///

Even with the sun climbing high so close to noon, the Statesman grounds are chilly, but the temperature in Champagne’s office is carefully controlled.

Ginger can’t stop shaking-- it’s not from the cold. On the long, oaken table, a white cup of coffee is settled before her on a saucer. Her shoulders drop with a sharp, heavy exhale, but her jaw just won’t unclench. 

“Thank you,” she manages, staring hard at the table’s grain. The obnoxious gleam of its polish makes her eye twitch.

Jack sinks into the seat beside her, watching the door expectantly. “How long’s he going to make us wait?”

Hands wrapped around her coffee, Ginger instead asks, “Did you get something to eat?”

“What?” Jack sounds distracted, but Ginger waits, fingers flexing around her cup. She ensures her expression is perfectly pleasant. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I--- grabbed a plate from the kitchen after the PD left.”

Ginger nods. The other patients had been released to the local police department with minimal fuss; her staff had seen to that. She has bigger problems this morning.

Jack on an empty stomach is a miserable spectre to deal with, so she’s glad she won’t have to deal with his temper _and_ Champagne. They’ve been waiting in their boss’s office for fifteen minutes and her stomach’s been tense since she woke that morning to learn the news.

A part of her wasn’t surprised to hear that Din’s party was gone, but she was surprised he’d taken Paz so soon from the infirmary. The man was not fit to be travelling. Then she’d learned that half the infirmary supplies store had been cleaned out. Then about the missing service vehicle. 

Din had managed to duck most of their surveillances feeds in his escape, but the camera covering the gates had a clear shot. Jack had enjoyed an awkward start to his day explaining that was not him in the feed. Ginger had been called in to debrief shortly after. Now Champagne was summoning them directly.

The rich, hot coffee makes a difference on the way down, steadying her. “How much did you tell them?”

Jack’s recline is anything but relaxed. Chancing a look at his face, Ginger watches him frown, mind spinning. 

“Did anyone update you about the traces of spice they found in the blaze?”

Jack’s looks at her sharply, expression darkening in anger. “Spice?”

Ginger nods. “From the scale of the blaze and blast patterns, it was no small amount. Your brother’s friend is a spice runner.”

Her partner scowls deeply, gaze turning to the window and the water tower beyond. Everything else considered, Ginger thinks he restrains himself well. Jack’s extreme reaction to any association with drugs has made him notorious.

“This’ll cost us,” he murmurs.

She closes her eyes, inwardly shaking her head. This is what she got for helping Jack. But then she thinks of that child all but wrapped around her hand, peering up at her with those sad eyes. Her heart twinges. They hadn’t been able to help him.

And Jack hadn’t even said ‘thank you’.

The heavy doors sweep open and they both leap to their feet. Champagne appraises them, expression stern. “Agents.”

“Sir,” they both acknowledge.

Champagne’s lips purse like he’s sucking something sour. He gestures quickly. “Sit.”

He settles at the head of the table, quiet and solemn, and Ginger’s heart sinks, anticipating the worst. It would be no less than they deserved.

“I don’t even know where to begin.” Champagne shakes his head, fingers pinching his brow.

Ginger bites back the instinctual apology and stares at her coffee instead.

“If I can’t trust my lead agents not to abuse their stations, who _can_ I trust? Hmm?” The old man reclines in his seat, leaning hard on the arm of his chair as he scrutinises them. “If we all used the resources of this estate for our own ends whenever it suited us--”

 _It was a baby,_ Ginger wants to interject. But she hadn’t known that until she walked into that conference room, she only knew that her partner needed her and now she’s really regretting that loyalty.

Champagne is focused intently on Jack, peering hard from beneath the brim of his hat. “If your brother wanted to enjoy the spoils of this estate, he should not have _squandered_ that opportunity when it was offered. We don’t offer our hand twice to get bit.”

He then turns his attention to Ginger and she freezes under the heat of his glare. “And you! You enabled him.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” she murmurs, gaze dropping, hands hiding in her lap.

Leaning his elbows on the table, Champagne is laughing ruefully. “I shudder to think: if it wasn’t caught on camera, would either of you have come forward? Or would you let me continue labouring under the delusion you can put this estate first? Statesman _exists_ to guard the _nation._ Not to intercept bounties. Not stage medical interventions to civilians without clearance. “

Jack sighs, looking the closest to contrite he can probably stomach. “I accept full responsibility, Sir.”

Champagne meets his eye, gaze shrewd. “Yes. You will.” He pins Ginger with that look. “You’re both suspended for two weeks.”

Ginger tries not to wince. A suspension of two such senior agents was not unheard of but at the same time would leave a significant gap in the organisation.

Champagne is not finished: “And I’ll need to withdraw you both from consideration of re-deployment.”

They both look at him, alarmed.

“B-but Sir--” Ginger stammers, heart breaking.

This can’t be happening. All her hard work, all those years of rejection, training, development, _patience,_ being passed over time and time again. This was supposed to be her turn. She levels Jack with a look of fury: _this was his fault._ He doesn’t even glance at her.

“Sir, please, New York has been asking for my transfer,” Jack is saying, expression earnest and patronising. “I’ve delayed because I was needed here.”

“You both want the job?” Champagne mocks, voice rising. “Well, neither of you can _perform_ the job! You think you’re disappointed? I had succession plans for the two of you, but you leave me no choice! Now I need to find a new lead in the field,” the disappointment he levels at Ginger makes her eyes burn with tears; he turns that look on Jack, “A new head of New York’s office!”

Jack is as still as stone, only the tic of his jaw betraying his tension. “I understand, Sir.”

Champagne hums in bewilderment. “I really wonder if you do, Jack. Maybe if you consulted one who does, you’d remind yourself what the role requires.”

Jack sits up a little straighter in his seat. His voice is quiet. “Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. I’ll do that.”

When Champagne looks back to Ginger, the heaviness in his eyes finally makes the first tear slip free. She swipes it away silently and looks dutifully at her lap, biting her inner lower lip hard.

“Leave your passes with Lucy,” Champagne says, dismissing them. “Security will escort you out.”

It’s humiliating walking with an armed escort like a pair of trespassers on grounds they helped build into a nationally renowned force to be reckoned with. Lucy looks sympathetic as she winds the lanyards around her hand and nods for the guards to lead them out.

Finally, Jack acknowledges his partner, hand drifting to Ginger's shoulder. “Darlin’--”

The pet name rankles her last nerve. She smacks his hand off and spins on her heel. “Don’t, Jack.”

Ginger is done being an afterthought of collateral damage. Storming away with the security guard keeping pace at her heels, she grinds her teeth and keeps the infuriating image of Jack’s guilty look in mind to focus her ire. If she can stay angry at him, maybe she won’t have to acknowledge how furious she truly is with herself.

///

Jack takes Champagne’s suggestion to heart. 

It’s many hours later and he’s alone in his city apartment when he finally places the call to his mentor, Statesman New York’s former lead who left a vacancy with her departure. It was a poorly kept secret she always intended Jack Daniels to be her successor. It would break his heart to disappoint her.

Rolling his tumbler of whiskey, Jack is studying the mounds of ice when the video call picks up on the fifth ring.

“Huh,” he huffs under his breath, mouth tugging up at the corner. “Almost thought you wouldn’t answer.”

“Jackie.” On the phone’s screen, Poppy Adams’s smile is just as brilliant and doting as when she wished them goodbye all those months ago. Her hair spills like liquid copper under harsh strobe lights. Her brow is shining with a light sweat. “I said I’m always here for you, and I meant it, kid.”

Her voice washes over him, warm and calming; he didn’t realise it was so sorely needed. Jack’s shoulders drop with relief. He kneads his icy tumbler against his temple. 

And, with a deep breath, he begins to talk.

**Author's Note:**

> Come suffer through Paz/Din found family headaches with us on Twitter: [Danudane](https://twitter.com/Danudaine) | [Bluebells](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds)
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